THE    POEMS    OF 
WILLIAM  WINTER 


WORKS   OF   WILLIAM   WINTER 


THE  QUEEN'S  DOMAIN 
SHAKESPEARE'S  ENGLAND 
GRAY  DAYS  AND  GOLD 
OLD  SHRINES  AND  IVY 
BROWN  HEATH  AND  BLUE  BELLS 
THE  ACTOR,  AND  OTHER  ORATIONS 
SHADOWS  OF  THE  STAGE:  I 
SHADOWS  or  THE  STAGE:  II 
SHADOWS  OF  THE  STAGE:  III 

(Others  in  Preparation) 
THE  PRESS  AND  THE  STAGE 
LIFE  AND  ART  OF  EDWIN  BOOTH 
LIFE  AND  ART  OF  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON 
WANDERERS.    (Poems) 
BRIEF  CHRONICLES.    Being  Lives  of  Actors 
A  WREATH  OF  LAUREL.    Addresses 
HENRY  IRVING  IN  AMERICA 
STAGE  LIFE  OF  MARY  ANDERSON 
A  DAUGHTER  OF  COMEDY 

THE  THEATRE  AND  THE  PUBLIC,  AND  OTHER 
ORATIONS 

JOHN  McCuLLOUGH.    A  Memorial 
LIFE  OF  JOHN  GILBERT 


OTHER  DAYS 

OLD  FRIENDS 

POEMS.    (Final  Edition) 

LIFE  AND  ART  OF  RICHARD  MANSFIELD 


WILLIAM    WINTER 


THE    POEMS 


OF 


WILLIAM   WINTER 


AUTHOR'S    EDITION 


With  a  Portrait 


NEW  YORK 
MOFFAT,  YARD  AND  COMPANY 

1909 


COPYRIGHT,  1909,  BY 
WILLIAM  WINTER 


All  Eights  Reserved 
Published,  Sept.,  1909 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

BEAUTY 13 

A   FANCY 15 

AN   IDEAL 16 

THE   LOVER 18 

SYMBOLS 19 

QUESTIONS 20 

THE  QUEEN 21 

INCENSE 22 

WITH   A   HANDFUL   OF   ROSES 23 

HOMAGE 24 

VICTORIA 26 

THE   NIGHT  WATCH 28 

RELICS 29 

UNWRITTEN   POEMS 30 

OMEN 31 

CHANGED 32 

NOW 33 

CIRCE 34 

DEAD    LEAVES 35 

THE  WHITE   ROSE 37 

REFUGE 39 

REQUIEM 40 

THE   UNDERTONE..  41 


3C6671 


PAGE 

A  LOST  LOVE .  .  . 42 

PREDESTINED 43 

THE  WRECKER'S  BELL 44 

ACCOMPLICES 50 

FULL-CIRCLE 51 

ORGIA 52 

EREBUS 55 

LETHE 56 

THE    ORDEAL 60 

THE  WHITE   FLAG 68 

JUBEL 71 

IDLENESS 72 

GEORGE  ARNOLD 73 

ADA 75 

BEYOND   THE   DARK 78 

ASLEEP 80 

HOMEWARD   BOUND 81 

BROUGHAM 86 

A  WELCOME 89 

THE   HARBINGER 93 

COMRADES 97 

POE 100 

NATURE 101 

THE  VOICE   OF  THE   SILENCE 102 

AFTER  ALL 108 

NO  MORE 110 

EDELWEISS Ill 

AT  SHAKESPEARE'S  GRAVE 112 

8 


PAGE 

A   PLEDGE. 113 

THE   PASSING   BELL 116 

CONSTANCE 117 

A   PICTURE 119 

HOLMES 120 

A   LOTOS   FLOWER 123 

UP   OR   DOWN 124 

THE  MERRY  MONARCH 125 

THE   SIGNAL   LIGHT 127 

LOVE   UNTOLD 129 

AT   ARLINGTON 130 

AT  ANCHOR 135 

EDWIN   BOOTH 136 

FIDELE 139 

REGRET 140 

NEVER 140 

ACROSS   THE   PALL 141 

THE   OUTCAST 144 

A   FAREWELL 146 

THE   CHURCHYARD 149 

THE   ANGEL   OF   DEATH 151 

LAWRENCE   BARRETT 153 

THE  VEILED   MUSE 156 

THE   GOLDEN   SILENCE 158 

IN  PEACE 159 

LONGFELLOW 160 

A   REVERIE 163 

EGERIA 168 

9 


PAGE 

AMARANTH 170 

GOOD-NIGHT 174 

THE   NIGHT  WIND 176 

EBB  TIDE 177 

AT  STRATFORD 178 

VIOLET 179 

THE   SEQUEL 182 

NOT   FORGOTTEN 184 

ARTHUR 185 

THE   DIFFERENCE 187 

RAYMOND 188 

ANUBIS 189 

SIR   PERCIVAL 193 

THE   STATUE 195 

MY  PALACES 199 

BLUE   AND   BLACK 201 

LAUREL 202 

WHAT'S  IN  A  NAME 206 

OLD  DAYS  AND  LOVES 208 

MY  LITTLE  CHILD 210 

AFTER  LONG  YEARS 212 

IN  MEMORY  OF  WILKIE  COLLINS 214 

HEAVEN'S  HOUR 216 

THE  VICTOR 217 

FLORENCE 218 

RUPERT 219 

AN   EMPTY   HEART 224 

REMEMBER 225 

10 


PAGE 

IONA 226 

TRIBUTE   TO   JEFFERSON 229 

A   BRIDAL   RHYME 231 

WITH   A   CASKET 232 

LINES   TO   A   GHOST 233 

ELEGY   FOR   BROMLEY 234 

ELSIE 237 

MONODY   FOR  AUGUSTIN   DALY 238 

CORONAL   FOR   STEDMAN 242 

THE   CORNER  STONE 244 

THE   SCEPTRE 246 

A   WISH 249 

A   GREETING 250 

TRIBUTE   TO   IRVING,   1 251 

TRIBUTE   TO   IRVING,   II 251 

TRIBUTE   TO   IRVING,   III 254 

FAITH 256 

CORONATION   ODE 257 

LOUIS 261 

SUBMISSION 263 

RESIGNATION 264 

VIOLA 265 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  VETERAN 266 

THIS   BOOK 268 

IN  MEMORY   OF   CURTIS 269 

THE  VOICE   OF  THE   BELL 271 

W.    L.    S 271 

THE  YELLOW   ROSE 272 

11 


PAGE 

A   SOUVENIR 274 

IN   ABSENCE 275 

THE   YOUNG   HEART 275 

THE   OLD   LOVE 276 

MEMORY 277 

PERDITA 280 

ELEGY   FOR  MANSFIELD 284 

AGE 286 

THE   BROKEN   HARP 287 

MISERIMUS 288 

T.    B.   A 289 

ON   THE   VERGE 290 

THE   RUBICON 293 

NOTES 297 

INDEX   OF  FIRST   LINES 309 

TITLE   INDEX..  315 


THE   POEMS    OF  WILLIAM  WINTER 


BEAUTY 

I  HAD  a  dream,  one  glorious,  summer  night, 
In  the  rich  bosom  of  imperial  June. 
Languid  I  lay  upon  a  fragrant  couch, 
Golden  with  amber,  festooned  wildly  o'er 
With  crimson  roses ;  and  the  mourning  stars 
Wept  tears  of  light  upon  their  clustered  leaves. 
Above  me  soared  the  azure  vault  of  heaven, 
Vast  and  majestic ;  cinctured  with  that  path 
Whereby,  perchance,  the  sea-born  Venus  found 
Her  way  to  higher  spheres ;  that  path  which  seems 
A  coronet  of  silver,  flecked  with  gems, 
And  bound  upon  the  forehead  of  the  night. 

There,  as  I  lay,  the  musical  south  wind 
Shook  all  the  roses  into  murmurous  life, 
And  poured  their  fragrance  o'er  me,  in  a  shower 
Of  crimson  mist ;  and  softly,  through  the  mist, 
Came  a  low,  sweet,  enchanting  melody, 
A  far-off  echo  from  the  land  of  dreams, 
Which  with  delicious  languor  filled  the  air, 
And  steeped  in  bliss  the  senses  and  the  soul. 

13 


Then  rose  a  shape,  a  dim  and  ghostly  shape, 

Whereto  no  feature  was,  nor  settled  form, 

A  shadowy  splendor,  seeming  as  it  came 

A  pearly  summer  cloud,  shot  through  and  through 

With  faintest  rays  of  sunset ;  yet  within 

A  spirit  dwelt ;  and,  floating  from  within, 

A  murmur  trembled  sweetly  into  words : — 

'  I  am  the  ghost  of  a  most  lovely  dream, 
Which  haunted,  in  old  days,  a  poet's  mind, 
And  long  he  sought  for,  wept,  and  prayed  for  me ; 
And  searched  through  all  the  chambers  of  his  soul, 
And  searched  the  secret  places  of  the  earth, 
The  lonely  forest  and  the  lonely  shore, 
And  listened  to  the  voices  of  the  sea, 
What  time  the  pale  stars  shone,  and  midnight  cold 
Slept  on  the  dark  waves  whispering  at  his  feet ; 
And  sought  the  mystery  in  a  human  form, 
Amid  the  haunts  of  men,  and  found  it  not ; 
And  looked  in  woman's  fond,  bewildering  eyes, 
And  mirrored  there  his  own,  and  saw  no  sign: 
But  only  in  his  sleep  I  came  to  him, 
And  gave  him  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 
Whereof  he  after  vainly  strove  to  sing, 
Weaving  his  heart  to  slender  threads  of  gold, — 
The  rich  pulsations  of  ecstatic  song, — 
In  wild  desire  to  breathe  the  charm  he  knew, 
Yet  might  not  utter ;  and,  so  striving,  passed 
Unto  the  quiet  of  the  dreaming  woods 
And  the  pathetic  silence  of  the  hills ; 
So  died,  and  came  to  me.     So,  evermore, 

14 


Through  lonely  days  and  passion-haunted  nights, 

A  life  of  starlight  gloom,  do  poets  seek 

To  rend  the  mystic  veil  that  covers  me, 

And  evermore  they  grasp  the  empty  air. 

For  only  in  their  dreams  I  come  to  them, 

And  give  them  fitful  glimpses  of  my  face, 

And  lull  them,  siren-like,  with  words  of  hope — 

That  promise,  sometime,  to  their  ravished  eyes, 

Beauty,  the  secret  of  the  universe, 

God's  thought,  that  gives  the  soul  eternal  peace.* 

Then  the  voice  ceased,  and  only,  through  the  mist, 
The  shaken  roses  murmured,  and  the  wind. 


A    FANCY 

A  HEART  of  sunshine,  and  a  face 
Of  rosy  bloom ;  a  form  of  grace ; 
Unconscious  beauty,  wild  and  free 
And  pure  in  natural  liberty ! 
'Tis  Fancy's  dream ;  but  such  as  she 
Should  ev'ry  lover's  mistress  be. 


15 


AN   IDEAL 

HER  young  face  is  softly  fair — 
Pearl  of  morning  flushed  with  red- 

And  the  golden,  silken  hair 
Makes  a  glory  round  her  head. 

Crimson  lips,  like  rubies  bright, 
Smiling,  part  o'er  tiny  pearls ; 

Little  wandering  stars  of  light 
Love  to  nestle  in  her  curls. 

And  her  voice  is  soft  and  low, 
Clear  as  music,  and  as  sweet ; 

Hearing  it,  you  hardly  know 

Where  the  sound  and  silence  meet. 

All  the  magic  who  can  tell 

Of  her  laughter  and  her  sighs, 

Or  what  heavenly  meanings  dwell 
In  her  kind,  confiding  eyes ! 

All  her  ways  are  winning  ways, 
Full  of  tenderness  and  grace ; 

And  a  witching  sweetness  plays 
Fondly  o'er  her  gentle  face. 
16 


True  and  pure  her  soul  within, — 
Breathing  a  celestial  air  ! 

Evil  and  the  shame  of  sin 

Could  not  dwell  a  moment  there. 

Is  it  but  a  vision,  this  ? 

Fond  creation  of  the  brain  ? 
Phantom  of  a  fancied  bliss  ? 

Type  of  beauty  void  and  vain  ? 

No  !  the  tides  of  being  roll 
Toward  a  paradise  to  be, 

Where  this  idol  of  my  soul 

Waits  and  longs  for  love  and  me. 


17 


THE   LOVER 

THE  stroller  in  the  pensive  field 

Doth  many  a  wildering  flower  descry ; 

Sometimes  to  him  the  roses  yield, 
Sometimes  the  lilies  feed  his  eye ; 

Sometimes  he  takes  delight  in  one, 

Sometimes  in  all,  sometimes  in  none. 


But  when,  in  dusky  woodland  ways, 
He  sees,  beside  some  dreaming  stone, 

The  fresh,  untutored  violet  raise 
Her  pleading  eyes,  for  him  alone, 

Then  makes  his  heart  its  instant  choice, — 

For  Nature  speaks,  in  Beauty's  voice. 

The  lover,  when  his  life  is  new, 
By  many  a  wayward  impulse  led, 

Sometimes  is  charmed  by  golden  hue, 
Sometimes  by  brown  and  mantling  red ; 

Sometimes  proud  dame  and  maiden  small 

Please  just  the  same,  or  not  at  all. 

But  when,  remote  from  pleasure's  whirl, 
He  sees,  at  home's  sequestered  shrine, 
18 


The  ardent,  happy,  guileless  girl, 

Of  mortal  mould,  but  soul  divine, — 
Too  good,  too  beautiful,  to  know 
How  f air  her  worth  and  beauty  show ; 

Then  all  his  roving  fancies  pause, 

Entranced  by  that  o'erwhelming  grace ; 

It  rules  him  by  celestial  laws, 
It  lights  a  splendor  in  his  face : 

'Tis  the  best  good  that  Fate  can  give — 

And  all  for  which  'tis  life  to  live ! 


SYMBOLS 

NOT  only  to  give  light  those  urns 
Of  golden  fire  adorn  the  skies ; 

Not  for  her  vision  only  burns 
The  glory  of  a  woman's  eyes ; 

But  in  those  flames  and  that  fine  glance 

Th'  authentic  flags  of  heaven  advance. 

In  them  we  know  our  life  divine, 

For  which  th'  unnumbered  planets  roll ! 

Action  and  suffering  are  but  sign  : 
Within  the  shadow  dwells  the  soul ; 

And  till  we  rend  this  earthly  thrall 

We  do  not  truly  live  at  all. 


19 


QUESTIONS 

BECAUSE  love's  token  is  a  sigh, 

Doth  it  the  less  love's  heart  disclose  ? 

Because  the  rose  must  fade  and  die, 
Is  it  the  less  the  lovely  rose? 

Because  black  night  must  shroud  the  day, 

Shall  the  brave  sun  no  more  be  gay  ? 

Because  chill  autumn  frights  the  birds, 
Shall  we  distrust  that  spring  will  come? 

Because  sweet  words  are  only  words, 
Shall  love  f orevermore  be  dumb  ? 

Because  our  bliss  is  fleeting  bliss, 

Shall  we  who  love  forbear  to  kiss  ? 

Because  those  eyes  of  gentle  mirth 

Must  sometime  cease  my  heart  to  thrill, 

Because  the  sweetest  voice  on  earth 
Sooner  or  later  must  be  still, 

Because  its  idol  is  unsure, 

Shall  my  strong  love  the  less  endure? 

Ah,  no !   let  lovers  breathe  their  sighs, 
And  roses  bloom,  and  music  sound, 

And  passion  burn  on  lips  and  eyes, 
And  pleasure's  merry  world  go  round : 

Let  golden  sunshine  flood  the  sky, 

And  let  me  love  or  let  me  die ! 
20 


THE    QUEEN 

HE  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold ! 

I  would  not  have  thee  come  too  nigh : 
The  sun's  gold  would  not  seem  pure  gold 

Unless  the  sun  were  in  the  sky : 
To  take  him  thence  and  chain  him  near 
Would  make  his  glory  disappear. 

He  keeps  his  state, — keep  thou  in  thine, 
And  shine  upon  me  from  afar ! 

So  shall  I  bask  in  light  divine, 

That  falls  from  love's  own  guiding  star ; 

So  shall  thy  eminence  be  high, 

And  so  my  passion  shall  not  die ; 

But  all  my  life  shall  reach  its  hands 
Of  lofty  longing  toward  thy  face, 

And  be  as  one  who,  speechless,  stands 
In  rapture  at  some  perfect  grace ! 

My  love,  my  hope,  my  all  shall  be 

To  look  to  heaven  and  look  to  thee ! 

Thy  eyes  shall  be  the  heavenly  lights, 
Thy  voice  the  gentle  summer  breeze, — 

What  time  it  sways,  on  moonlit  nights, 
The  murmuring  tops  of  leafy  trees ; 

And  I  shall  touch  thy  beauteous  form 

In  June's  red  roses,  rich  and  warm. 
21 


But  thou  thyself  shall  not  come  down 
From  that  pure  region  far  above ; 

But  keep  thy  throne  and  wear  thy  crown, 
Queen  of  my  heart  and  queen  of  love ! 

A  monarch  in  thy  realm  complete, 

And  I  a  monarch — at  thy  feet ! 


INCENSE 

TRUE  heart !  upon  the  current  of  whose  love 
My  days,  like  roses  in  a  summer  brook, 
Float  by,  in  fragrance  and  in  melody, 
Take  these,  unworthy  symbols  of  my  soul, 
Made  precious  by  the  heavenly  faith  of  thine ! 
Take  them:  and,  though  a  face  of  pain  looks  through 
The  marble  veil  of  words,  thy  heart  will  know 
That  what  was  shadow  once  is  sunshine  now, 
And  Me  all  peace,  and  beauty,  and  content, 
Redeemed  and  hallowed  by  thy  sacred  grace. 
Thrice  happy  he  who, — favored  child  of  fate ! — 
Finds  his  Egeria  in  a  mortal  guise, 
And,  hearing  all  the  discords  of  the  world 
Blend  into  music,  round  his  haunted  way, 
Knows  hope  fulfilled  and  bliss  already  won ! 


WITH   A  HANDFUL  OF  ROSES 

EVERYTHING  my  heart  would  say, 

Valiant  roses  shall  declare, 
Since  my  lips,  less  bold  than  they, 

Dread  her  frown  and  do  not  dare. 
They  shall  nestle  on  her  breast, 

They  shall  whisper,  soft  and  low, 
'He  loves  truly,  he  loves  best, 

Who's  afraid  to  tell  you  so.' 

Everything  my  heart  would  say, 

These  brave  roses  know  full  well, 
And  they  mean,  in  their  sweet  way, 

More  than  any  words  could  tell ! 
They  shall  be  her  bosom's  guest, 

They  shall  whisper,  soft  and  low, 
'He  loves  truly,  he  loves  best, 

Who's  afraid  to  tell  you  so.' 


HOMAGE 

WHITE  daisies  on  the  meadow  green 
Present  thy  beauteous  form  to  me : 

Peaceful  and  joyful  those  are  seen, 
And  peace  and  joy  encompass  thee. 

I  watch  them,  where  they  dance  and  shine, 

And  love  them — for  their  charm  is  thine. 


Red  roses  o'er  the  woodland  brook 
Remember  me  thy  lovely  face : 

So  blushing  and  so  fresh  its  look, 
So  wild  and  shy  its  radiant  grace ! 

I  kiss  them,  in  their  coy  retreat, 

And  think  of  lips  more  soft  and  sweet. 

Gold  arrows  of  the  merry  morn, 
Shot  swiftly  over  orient  seas ; 

Gold  tassels  of  the  bending  corn 
That  ripple  in  the  August  breeze, 

Thy  wildering  smile,  thy  glorious  hair, 

And  all  thy  power  and  state  declare. 

White,  red,  and  gold — the  awful  crown 
Of  majesty,  and  beauty,  too  ! 
24 


From  what  a  height  those  eyes  look  down 

On  him  who  proudly  dares  to  sue ! 
Yet,  free  from  self  as  thou  from  sin 
Is  love  that  loves,  nor  asks  to  win. 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  flower, 
The  waving  grass,  the  dancing  wave, 

The  fragrant  pomp  of  garden  bower, 
The  violet  meek,  the  orchid  brave, 

Sweet  dreams  by  night,  sweet  thoughts  by  day,- 

And  time  shall  tire  ere  love  decay ! 

Let  me  but  love  thee  in  the  glow, 
When  morning  on  the  ocean  shines, 

Or  in  the  mighty  winds  that  blow, 

Snow-laden,  through  the  mountain  pines, — 

In  all  things  fair,  or  grand,  or  dread, 

And  all  shall  die  ere  love  be  dead ! 


VICTORIA 

MIDNIGHT  and  moonlight  encircle  her  slumbers, 
Pillowed,  afar,  on  the  wandering  deep : 

Softly,  ah  softly,  with  tenderest  numbers, 
Echoes  of  paradise,  lull  her  to  sleep ! 

Stars  in  your  lustre,  and  clouds  in  your  fleetness, 
Mix  round  the  gallant  ship,  breasting  the  gale ! 

Shed  your  sweet  influence  over  her  sweetness ! 
Guard  every  pinion  and  bless  every  sail ! 

Billows,  roll  gently,  that  bear  on  your  bosom 
Treasure  more  precious  than  infinite  gold — 

Beauty  in  spring-time,  and  love  in  its  blossom, 
All  that  my  hungry  heart  longs  to  enfold. 

Ocean,  that  breaks  on  the  rocks  where  I  languish, 
Blessing  and  prayer  on  your  surges  to  pour, 

Like  in  your  might,  to  my  passionate  anguish, 
Shield  her,  and  save  her,  and  waft  her  to  shore ! 

Angels,  that  float  in  the  heavenly  spaces, 

Ah,  while  you  guide  her  through  perils  unknown, 

Still  let  the  light  of  your  beautiful  faces 
Shine  on  her  face  that  is  fair  as  your  own ! 
26 


Violets,  welcome  her !   roses,  adore  her, — 
Blushing  with  rapture  from  mountain  to  sea ! 

Lilies,  flash  out  on  the  meadows  before  her, 
Sparkle  in  glory,  and  ripple  in  glee ! 

Proudly  she  comes,  like  the  pageant  of  morning 
Borne  through  the  pearl-purpled  gates  of  the  day 

Darkness  and  sorrow,  consumed  in  her  scorning, 
Shrink  from  her  splendor  and  vanish  away. 

Scattered  o'er  mountain  and  forest  and  river, 
Far  the  dark  phantoms  of  trouble  are  hurled : 

She  will  illuminate,  she  will  deliver, 

She  will  redeem  and  transfigure  the  world ! 


THE    NIGHT    WATCH 

BENEATH  the  midnight  moon  of  May, 

Through  dusk  on  either  hand, 
One  sheet  of  silver  spreads  the  bay, 

One  crescent  jet  the  land ; 
The  black  ships  mirrored  in  the  stream 

Their  ghostly  tresses  shake  ; — 
When  will  the  dead  world  cease  to  dream  ? 

When  will  the  morning  break  ? 

Beneath  a  night  no  longer  May, 

Where  only  cold  stars  shine, 
One  glimmering  ocean,  spreads  away 

This  haunted  life  of  mine ; 
And,  shattered  on  the  frozen  shore, 

My  harp  can  never  wake ; — 
When  will  this  night  of  death  be  o'er  ? 

When  will  the  morning  break  ? 


RELICS 

THE  violets  that  you  gave  are  dead — 
They  could  not  bear  the  loss  of  you ; 

The  spirit  of  the  rose  has  fled — 
It  loved  you,  and  its  love  was  true : 

Back  to  your  lips  that  spirit  flies, 

To  bask  beneath  your  radiant  eyes. 

Only  the  ashes  bide  with  me, 
The  ashes  of  the  ruined  flowers — 

Types  of  a  rapture  not  to  be ; 
Sad  relics  of  bewildering  hours ; 

Poor,  frail,  forlorn,  and  piteous  shows 

Of  errant  passion's  wasted  woes. 

He  grandly  loves  who  loves  in  vain : 
These  withered  flowers  that  lesson  teach. 

They  suffered,  they  did  not  complain, 
Their  life  was  love  too  great  for  speech : 

In  silent  pride  their  fate  they  bore ; 

They  loved,  they  grieved,  they  died — no  more ! 

Far  off  the  purple  banners  flare, 

Beneath  the  golden  morning  spread : 

I  know  what  queen  is  worshipped  there, 
What  laurels  wreathe  her  lovely  head : 

Her  name  be  sacred,  in  my  thought, 

And  sacred  be  the  grief  she  brought ! 
29 


For,  since  I  saw  that  glorious  face, 
And  heard  the  music  of  that  voice, 

Much  beauty  darkens  in  disgrace 
That  used  to  make  my  heart  rejoice ; 

And  rose  and  violet  ne'er  can  be 

The  same  that  once  they  were  to  me. 


UNWRITTEN    POEMS 

FAIRY  spirits  of  the  breeze — 
Frailer  nothing  is  than  these. 
Fancies  born  we  know  not  where — 
In  the  heart  or  in  the  air : 
Wandering  echoes  blown  unsought 
From  far  crystal  peaks  of  thought : 
Shadows,  fading  at  the  dawn, 
Ghosts  of  feeling  dead  and  gone : 
Alas !     Are  all  fair  things  that  live 
Still  lovely  and  still  fugitive  ? 


30 


OMEN 

A  RAVEN  flew  over  the  house-top, 

In  the  gloaming  that  heralds  the  night : 

Far  off  snarled  the  threat  of  the  thunder, 
And  the  raven  he  croaked  in  his  flight. 

A  raven  flew  over  the  house-top, 

And  his  shadow  fell  dark  on  my  heart : 

A  voice,  in  its  innermost  chamber, 
Said,  'The  angel  of  love  must  depart : 

Too  long  you  are  calm  in  the  sunshine, 
And  too  long  are  the  roses  in  bloom : 

Time  now  for  the  rush  of  the  tempest, 

For  the  chill,  and  the  blight,  and  the  gloom.' 

Deserted  the  house  is,  and  silent ; 

Night  is  drifting  o'er  woodland  and  wave : 
And  love,  that  was  life's  consecration, 

Is  a  spectre  that  broods  on  a  grave. 


31 


CHANGED 

IT  is  not  that  she's  far  away 
That  breaks  the  heart  and  dims  the  day ; 
It  is  that  there  is  something  gone 
Her  passion  used  to  dream  upon ; 
That  now  the  tender  dream  is  o'er, 
And  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 

Her  absence  makes  my  spirit  mourn — 

Yet  e'en  her  absence  could  be  borne : 

But, — bleakest  of  all  human  grief, 

And  desolate  beyond  relief, — 

One  thought  consumes  my  bosom's  core — 

That  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 

The  violets  should  be  bluer  far, 
The  roses  redder  than  they  are, 
And  lighter  o'er  the  rippling  grass 
The  shadows  of  the  clouds  should  pass. 
There's  nothing  as  it  was  before — 
For  him  she  loved  she  loves  no  more. 


NOW 

WHEN  you  shall  walk  in  pensive  mood 
The  happy  paths  we  used  to  know, 

And  sad,  regretful  thoughts  intrude, 
And  hopeless  dreams  of  long  ago, 

How  will  your  wakened  spirit  bear 

Its  bitter  pang,  its  bleak  despair? 

When  in  your  heart,  as  now  in  mine, 
Shall  throb  the  pulse  of  arid  grief, — 

Since  nothing  earthly  or  divine 

In  that  dark  hour  can  bring  relief, — 

How  will  you  mourn  o'er  wasted  bliss, 

And  that  wild  moment  long  for  this ! 

The  echo  of  a  silent  word, 

An  exhalation  of  the  dew, 
A  lonely  sigh  at  midnight  heard 

In  depth  of  some  funereal  yew, — 
Those  shall  be  more,  in  that  black  day, 
Than  your  true  lover  past  away. 

Then  do  not  scorn  the  present  hour, 
Nor  crush  the  roses  while  they  bloom ! 

The  best  of  time  has  only  power 
To  hang  a  garland  on  a  tomb ; 

And  all  that  lasts  when  years  are  sped 

Is  hopeless  memory  of  the  dead. 
33 


CIRCE 

IT  is  the  law  of  streams  to  run, 

Of  autumn  leaves  to  fall ; 
And  she  who  has  been  false  to  one, — 

She  will  be  false  to  all. 

O,  wild  as  tempest  on  the  sea 

Is  that  poor  lover's  fate, 
Whose  faithful  spirit,  bound  to  thee, 

Must  hope  and  fear  and  wait ! 

By  surge  of  joy  and  storm  of  pain 
His  heart  is  soothed  or  broke ; 

He  would  not  rend  thy  heavenly  chain,- 
He  cannot  bear  thy  yoke. 

There  is  no  heaven  so  high  as  faith, 

No  hell  so  deep  as  doubt, 
No  haunted  spectre  like  the  wraith 

Thy  fancies  wile  or  flout ! 

Ah,  let  that  tiger  heart  of  thine, 

By  brutish  mercy  led, 
To  just  one  piteous  act  incline — 

And  strike  thy  lover  dead ! 

Then,  let  the  streams  forever  run, 

The  leaves  forever  fall ! 
Thou  wilt, — at  last, — be  true  to  one, 

And  not  be  false  to  all. 
34 


DEAD  LEAVES 

NOT  made  by  worth,  nor  marred  by  flaw, 
Not  won  by  good,  nor  lost  by  ill, 

Love  is  its  own  and  only  law, 

And  lives  and  dies  by  its  own  will. 

It  was  our  fate  and  not  our  sin 

That  we  should  love,  and  love  should  win. 


Not  bound  by  oath,  nor  stayed  by  prayer, 
Nor  held  by  thirst  of  strong  desire, 

Love  lives  like  fragrance  in  the  air, 
And  dies  as  breaking  waves  expire. 

'Twas  death,  not  falsehood,  bade  us  part,- 

The  death  of  love  that  killed  my  heart. 

Not  kind,  as  dreaming  poets  think, 

Nor  merciful,  as  sages  say, — 
Love  heeds  not  where  its  victims  sink, 

When  once  its  passion  ebbs  away. 
'Twas  Nature,  it  was  not  disdain, 
That  made  thee  careless  of  my  pain. 

Not  thralled  by  law,  nor  ruled  by  right, 
Love  keeps  no  audit  with  the  skies  : 
35 


Its  star,  that  once  is  quenched  in  night, 

Has  set, — and  never  more  will  rise. 
My  soul  is  lost,  by  thee  forgot, 
And  there's  no  heaven  where  thou  art  not. 

But  happy  he,  though  scathed  and  lone, 
Who  sees  afar  love's  fading  wings, — 

Whose  seared  and  blighted  heart  has  known 
The  splendid  agony  it  brings ! 

No  life  that  is,  no  life  to  be, 

Can  ever  take  the  past  from  me ! 

Red  roses  bloom  for  other  lives, — 
Your  withered  leaves  alone  are  mine : 

Yet,  not  for  all  that  time  survives 
Would  I  your  heavenly  gift  resign, — 

Now  cold  and  dead,  once  warm  and  true, — 

The  love  that  lived  and  died  in  you. 


36 


THE    WHITE    ROSE 

MORE  strange  than  death  to  all  regrets, 
Love  gives  no  tear  to  passion  sped  : 

Its  frozen  heart  at  once  forgets 

The  wronged,  the  absent,  and  the  dead. 

We  see  the  wave  that  Venus  rides, — 

We  do  not  see  the  doom  it  hides. 


Fierce,  boundless,  fetterless,  supreme, 
Relentless,  glorious,  mindless,  gay, 

Love  grants  us  one  supernal  dream, 
One  vision,  one  ecstatic  day ; 

In  fate's  dull  book  one  fiery  page, — 

Of  bliss  an  hour,  of  woe  an  age. 


Be  the  red  roses  never  more 

Companions  to  a  thought  of  mine  ! 

Behind  me  fades  the  lessening  shore, 
Above,  the  stars  of  midnight  shine ; 

On  black  and  dangerous  seas  they  gleam, 

And  life  is  done  with  doubt  and  dream. 


Pale,  spectral  shapes  of  dead  desire, 
Poor  wandering  souls  of  heavenly  light, 
37 


So  lovely  in  your  soft  attire, 

So  coldly  pure,  so  sadly  bright, 
Henceforth  be  angels  of  my  fate, 
And  take  the  life  ye  consecrate ! 

White  roses  for  the  cradled  head, 
The  bridal  veil,  the  stainless  pall ! 

When  love  and  sin  and  grief  are  dead, 
Let  the  white  roses  shroud  them  all ! 

Ah !  bloom  for  me  while  time  flows  on, 

And  guard  my  rest  when  I  am  gone. 


38 


REFUGE 

SET  your  face  to  the  sea,  fond  lover, — 

Cold  in  darkness  the  sea- winds  blow ! 
Waves  and  clouds  and  the  night  will  cover 

All  your  passion  and  all  your  woe : 
Sobbing  waves,  and  the  death  within  them, 

Sweet  as  the  lips  that  once  you  prest — 
Pray  that  your  hopeless  Jheart  may  win  them ! 

Pray  that  your  weary  life  may  rest ! 

Set  your  face  to  the  stars,  fond  lover, — 

Calm,  and  silent,  and  bright,  and  true ! — 
They  will  pity  you,  they  will  hover 

Softly  over  the  deep  for  you. 
Winds  of  heaven  will  sigh  your  dirges, 

Tears  of  heaven  for  you  be  spent, 
And  sweet  for  you  will  the  murm'ring  surges 

Pour  the  wail  of  their  low  lament. 

Set  your  face  to  the  lonely  spaces, 

Vast  and  gaunt,  of  the  midnight  sky  ! 
There,  with  the  drifting  cloud,  your  place  is, 

There  with  the  griefs  that  cannot  die. 
Love  is  a  mocking  fiend's  derision, 

Peace  a  phantom,  and  faith  a  snare ! 
Make  the  hope  of  your  heart  a  vision — 

Look  to  heaven,  and  find  it  there ! 


39 


REQUIEM 

BRING  withered  autumn  leaves, 
Call  everything  that  grieves, 
And  build  a  funeral  pyre  above  his  head ! 
Heap  there  all  golden  promise  that  deceives, 
Beauty,  that  wins  the  heart  and  then  bereaves,- 
For  Love  is  dead. 

Not  slowly  did  he  die : 
A  meteor  from  the  sky 
Falls  not  so  swiftly  as  his  spirit  fled, 
When,  with  regretful,  half-averted  eye, 
He  gave  one  little  smile,  one  little  sigh, 
And  so  was  sped. 

But  oh,  not  yet,  not  yet 
Would  my  lost  soul  forget 
How  beautiful  he  was  while  he  did  live ; 
Or,  when  his  eyes  were  dewy  and  lips  wet, 
What  kisses,  tenderer  than  all  regret, 
My  love  would  give. 

Strew  roses  on  his  breast ! 
He  loved  the  roses  best ; 
He  never  cared  for  lilies  or  for  snow. 

Let  be  this  bitter  end  of  his  sweet  quest ; 
Let  be  the  pallid  silence  that  is  rest — 
And  let  all  go  ! 


40 


THE  UNDERTONE 

IT  droops  and  dies  in  morning  light — 
The  rose  that  yesterday  was  whole : 

'Ah,  whither,  on  the  wind  of  night, 
Is  borne  the  fragrance  of  my  soul  ? ' 

It  sinks  upon  the  ocean  zone — 

The  wind  that  marred  the  tender  rose : 

'Ah,  whither  has  the  fragrance  flown, 
And  what  shall  give  my  soul  repose  ?' 

It  breaks  upon  the  rocky  shore — 
The  vast,  tumultuous,  grieving  sea : 

'Ah,  never,  never,  never  more 

Can  love  and  peace  come  back  to  me!' 

It  sobs,  far  up  the  lonely  sky, 
It  faints  in  regions  of  the  blest — 

The  endless,  bitter,  human  cry, 
And  only  Death  could  tell  the  rest. 


41 


A    LOST    LOVE 

WHITE  clouds,  lone  wand'ring  o'er  the  wastes  that  sever 
My  sorrowing  soul  from  her  it  loves  in  vain, 

Waft  to  her  heart,  whom  I  have  lost  forever, 
This  last  sad  cry  of  passion  and  of  pain. 

Tell  her,  for  many  a  year  my  spirit  waited, 

Now  in  faith's  rapture,  now  in  doubt's  chill  gloom, 

For  her,  the  angel-born,  divinely  fated 
To  be  at  once  my  glory  and  my  doom. 

Tell  her  I  know  how  very  far  asunder 
The  lonely  currents  of  our  lives  must  be : 

For  her  the  summer  sky,  with  roses  under, 
For  me  the  rain-cloud  and  the  sobbing  sea. 

Yet,  could  she  feel  how  dark  this  world  is  growing 
For  him  whose  sad  eyes  see  her  drift  away, — 

A  shadow,  ever  pale  and  paler  showing 

In  evening  twilight,  cold,  and  bleak,  and  gray, — 

Perchance  her  lips,  remembering  my  caresses, 
Her  heart,  yet  thrilling  with  the  throbs  of  mine, 

Would  once  more  turn  to  him  whose  grief  confesses 
Love's  vain  and  madd'ning  struggle  to  resign. 

Ah,  to  forget — and  conquer  in  forgetting ! 

But  death  alone  this  stormy  heart  can  quell : — 
Sad  star  of  hope,  now  hasten  to  thy  setting, 

And,  O,  bright  goddess  of  my  life,  Farewell! 

42 


PREDESTINED 

A  CALM  cold  face  as  white  and  clear 

As  marble,  and  as  passionless : 
Eyes  darkly  sad,  that  tell  no  fear, 

No  hope,  no  pleasure,  no  distress  : 

A  smile,  that  seems  all  o'er  to  sleep, 
As  sleeps  a  sunbeam  on  a  stone ; 

A  gentle  voice,  but  soft  and  deep, 
And  full  of  music,  every  tone ; 

A  courtly  manner, — he  is  true 

To  social  usage,  and  will  pay 
To  all  the  world  its  proper  due 

Of  graceful,  stately  courtesy  : — 

Behold,  an  awful  thought  it  is 

That  such  a  ghastly,  gaunt  despair 

Can  wear  a  shape  so  grand  as  this, 
A  face  so  noble  and  so  fair ! 

For  that  is  not  a  common  grief 

Which  tears  his  heart  and  burns  his  brain 
Who  feels  eternity  too  brief 

For  his  tremendous  trance  of  pain ! 

Whose  soul  endures  infernal  woes, 
Enchained  by  some  infernal  spell ; 

Who  knows  not  peace,  but  only  knows 
The  lurid,  withering  fires  of  hell ! 
43 


THE    WRECKER'S    BELL 


'THERE'S  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 

In  the  wind  there's  a  desolate  moan ; 
And  the  rage  of  the  furious  sea  is  white, 

Where  it  beats  on  the  crags  of  stone  : 
Stand  here  at  my  side,  and  look  over  the  tide, 

And  say  if  you  hear  it, — the  sullen  knell, 
Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbor-bar, 

The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 
For  I  cannot  hear — I  am  cold  with  fear — 

Ah,  leave  me  not  alone ! 
For  I'm  old,  I'm  old,  and  my  blood  is  cold, 

And  I  fear  to  be  alone.' 


II 


With  a  shudder  I  saw  his  ashen  face, 

In  that  wild  and  fearful  night — 
For  his  blazing  eyes  illumed  the  place 

With  a  terrible,  ghastly  light ; 
And  ever  his  long  locks  floated  out, 

As  white  as  the  foam  of  the  sea ; 
And  the  great  waves  dashed  on  the  rocks  about 

With  a  mad  and  cruel  glee. 
44 


But  I  stood  by  his  side,  and  looked  over  the  tide, 
And  faintly  I  heard  that  solemn  knell, 

Faint,  from  afar,  on  the  harbor-bar, 
The  hollow  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 

Ill 

'It  is  but  the  clang  of  the  signal  bell, 

That  floats  through  the  midnight  air : 
For  many  a  year  in  the  surging  swell 

Has  the  old  bell  sounded  there. 
When  the  storm  in  his  might  rides  through  the  night, 

And  his  steeds  in  thunder  neigh, 
Then  its  iron  tongue  is  swayed  and  swung, 

And  plunged  in  the  angry  spray ; 
And  so  when  the  summer  skies  are  bright, 

And  the  breakers  are  at  play. 
But  wherefore  is  it  you  stay  me  here, 

And  why  do  you  shudder  and  moan, 
And  what  are  the  nameless  shapes  you  fear 

In  this  desolate  place  alone  ? 
For  your  eyes  are  set  in  a  dreadful  glare, 

And  you  shrink  at  the  solemn  knell, 
As  it  trembles  along  the  midnight  air — 

The  boom  of  the  wrecker's  bell.' 


IV 


'Look  up,'  he  cried,  '  to  the  awful  sky, 

Look  over  the  furious  sea, 
And  mark,  as  the  grinning  fiends  float  by, 

How  they  beckon  and  howl  to  me ! 
45 


They  are  ringing  my  knell  with  the  baleful  bell, 

And  they  gloat  on  the  doom  to  be. 
Ah !  give  me  your  hand,  and  look  not  back — 

We  stand  not  here  alone — 
And  the  horrible  shapes  that  throng  my  track 

Would  turn  your  heart  to  stone. 
The  spell  of  the  dead  is  on  the  hour, 

And  I  yield  my  soul  to  its  fearful  power.5 


A  face  looks  forth  in  the  darkness  there, 

A  young  face,  sweet  with  a  rosy  light : 
The  sunshine  sleeps  in  her  golden  hair, 

And  her  violet  eyes  are  softly  bright : 
On  her  parted  lips  there's  an  innocent  smile, 

Like  a  sunbeam  kissing  a  velvet  rose ; 
And  her  cheeks  of  pearl  grow  warm  the  while, 

With  a  delicate  blush  that  comes  and  goes. 
Ah !  purer  than  morn  in  its  purest  hour, 

And  holy  as  one  from  an  angel  clime, 
Was  the  tender  woman,  the  beautiful  flower, 

I  loved  and  lost  in  the  far-off  time. 


VI 


One  fatal  night,  in  the  long  ago, 
My  gallant  cruiser  passed  that  bar. 

In  a  bank  of  clouds  the  moon  hung  low, 
And  the  sombre  sky  showed  scarce  a  star. 

The  night  was  calm,  but  I  heard  in  the  swell 
A  murmur  of  storm,  and,  far  away, 
46 


The  muffled  toll  of  the  wrecker's  bell, 
As  it  floated  up  from  the  outer  bay. 
And  a  look  of  hate  in  the  waiting  waves 
Spoke  to  my  soul  of  a  place  of  graves. 

VII 

I  watched  them  there,  as  I  stood  at  the  wheel, — 

The  happy  lover,  the  radiant  bride, — 

And  the  wasting  fever  of  frantic  pain 

And  jealous  hatred  burnt  my  brain ; 

And  I  felt  what  only  demons  feel, 

For  the  man  who  walked  by  that  woman's  side. 

Nothing  they  thought  of  danger  then, 

Or  the  schemes  and  crimes  of  wicked  men. 

Lost  in  a  wordless  dream  of  bliss, 

And  consecrate  with  marriage  kiss, 

What  could  those  innocent  creatures  know 

Of  the  burning  hate,  the  maddening  woe, 

And  the  deadly  purpose  of  blind  despair, 

In  the  heart  of  the  fiend  beside  them  there ' 

VIII 

An  hour  had  passed — he  stood  alone,  .  .  . 

I  thought  no  creature  saw  the  blow 
That  felled  him  senseless  as  a  stone, 
Or  heard  the  pitiful,  low  moan,, 
His  death-sigh,  as  he  sank  below 
These  very  waters  where  they  flow 

Around  that  vengeful  bell. 
But  joy,  like  grief,  will  vigils  keep, 

47 


And  love  hath  eyes  that  never  sleep, 

And  secret  tongues  that  tell. 
She  came,  like  some  swift  bolt  of  light, 
Scarce  seen,  a  meteor  of  the  sight ! 
One  dazzling  gleam,  one  cry  so  shrill 
That  sea  and  sky  and  this  lone  hill 
Are  echoing  with  its  anguish  still — 
And  she  had  leaped  into  the  night : 
And  on  her  murdered  lover's  breast 
In  the  same  wave  she  sunk  to  rest. 

That  moment  o'er  the  sky 
Flamed  the  red  wrath  of  such  a  storm 
As  might  enwreathe  the  avenger's  form 

When  howling  fiends  defy. 
No  ship  could  live  in  the  gale  that  blew, 
And  mine  went  down,  with  all  her  crew — 

I,  only,  left  alive : 

Spurned  upward  out  of  weltering  hell 
To  that  same  reef  where  swings  the  bell 
That,  ever  since,  with  fateful  spell, 
Hath  drawn  me  by  its  hideous  knell, 

I  breathed,  and  ceased  to  strive — 
I,  whom  the  lightning  will  not  rend, 
Nor  waves  engulf,  nor  death  befriend, 

Nor  holy  father  shrive !' .  .  . 

IX 

There's  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night, 
In  the  wind  there's  a  desolate  moan ; 

But  the  waves  roll  soft  on  the  sand  so  white, 
And  break  on  the  crags  of  stone ; 
48 


And  the  sea-gulls  scream  in  their  frolic  flight, 

And  all  my  dream  is  flown. 
But,  far  away  in  the  twilight  gloom, 
I  still  can  hear  it,  the  muffled  boom, — 
And  it  seems  to  be  ringing  a  dead  man's  knell,- 
Solemn  and  slow,  of  the  wrecker's  bell. 


49 


ACCOMPLICES 

BLACK  rocks  upon  the  ragged  coast, 
Mutter  no  more  our  hidden  crime ! 

I  hear,  far  off,  your  sullen  boast, 
But  I  defy  you  !  'tis  not  time  ! 

You  cannot  tell  our  secret  yet ; 

The  trusty  sea  must  keep  its  dead, 
And  many  suns  arise  and  set 

Before  that  awful  word  is  said. 

For  I  am  young ;  I've  all  the  grace 
Of  life,  and  love,  and  beauty  now : 

There's  not  a  wrinkle  on  my  face ; 
There's  not  a  shadow  on  my  brow. 

I  cannot  bear  the  loathsome  grave, 
I  will  not  leave  the  cheerful  sun ! 

Rave  on  !  in  storm  and  midnight  rave, 
For  years  and  years,  till  all  is  done : 

Till  these  brown  locks  are  changed  to  gray ; 

Till  these  clear  eyes  are  dim  and  old ; 
Not  yet,  not  yet  the  fatal  day 

When  all  that  horror  must  be  told ! 
50 


But,  then — gnash  all  your  jagged  teeth, 
And  howl  for  vengeance  !    I  will  come ; 

And  that  same  cruel  pit  beneath 

Shall  yawn  and  gulf  me  to  my  home. 

To-day — forbear,  nor  mutter  more  ! 

The  sky  is  dark,  and  dark  the  sea, 
And  all  the  land,  from  shore  to  shore, 

Is  hideous  with  your  grisly  glee. 


FULL-CIRCLE 

THE  future  and  the  past  are  blended, 
And  all  will  one  day  re-appear ; 

For  nothing  in  this  world  is  ended, 
Whatever  seems  to  perish  here. 


51 


ORGIA 

WHO  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free, — 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  and  drink  with  me ! 

With  a  careless  heart  and  a  merry  eye 

He  laughs  at  the  world  as  the  world  goes  by ; 

He  laughs  at  power,  and  wealth,  and  fame ; 
He  laughs  at  virtue,  he  laughs  at  shame ; 

He  laughs  at  hope,  and  he  laughs  at  fear ; 
At  memory's  dead  leaves,  crisp  and  sere ; 

He  laughs  at  the  future,  cold  and  dim, — 
Nor  earth  nor  heaven  is  dear  to  him. 

O,  that  is  the  comrade  fit  for  me  ! 
He  cares  for  nothing,  his  soul  is  free  ; 

Free  as  the  soul  of  the  fragrant  wine — 
Sit  down,  good  fellow,  my  heart  is  thine ! 

For  I  heed  not  custom,  creed,  nor  law ; 
I  care  for  nothing  that  ever  I  saw. 

In  every  city  my  cups  I  quaff, 
And  over  the  chalice  I  riot  and  laugh. 
52 


I  laugh,  like  the  cruel  and  turbulent  wave ; 

I  laugh  at  the  church,  and  I  laugh  at  the  grave. 

I  laugh  at  joy,  and  well  I  know 
That  I  merrily,  merrily  laugh  at  woe. 

I  terribly  laugh,  with  an  oath  and  a  sneer, 
When  I  think  that  the  hour  of  death  is  near ; 

For  I  know  that  death  is  a  guest  divine, 

Who  shall  drink  my  blood,  as  I  drink  this  wine. 

And  he  cares  for  nothing  !  a  king  is  he — 
Come  on,  old  fellow,  and  drink  with  me ! 

With  you  I  will  drink  to  the  solemn  past, 
Though  the  cup  that  I  drain  should  be  my  last. 

I  will  drink  to  the  phantoms  of  love  and  truth ; 
To  ruined  hopes  and  a  wasted  youth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  woman  who  wrought  my  woe, 
In  the  diamond  morning  of  long  ago : 

To  a  heavenly  face,  in  sweet  repose, 

To  the  lily's  snow  and  the  blood  of  the  rose ; 

To  the  splendor,  caught  from  orient  skies, 
That  thrilled  in  the  dark  of  her  hazel  eyes, — 
53 


Her  large  eyes,  wild  with  the  fire  of  the  south,- 
And  the  dewy  wine  of  her  warm,  red  mouth. 

I  will  drink  to  the  thought  of  a  better  time ; 
To  innocence,  gone  like  a  death-bell  chime. 

I  will  drink  to  the  shadow  of  coming  doom ; 
To  the  phantoms  that  wait  in  my  lonely  tomb. 

I  will  drink  to  my  soul,  in  its  terrible  mood, 
Dimly  and  solemnly  understood  : 

And,  last  of  all,  to  the  monarch  of  sin, 
Who  scaled  its  rampart  and  reigns  within. 

My  sight  is  fading — it  dies  away — 
I  cannot  tell  is  it  night  or  day. 

My  heart  is  burnt  and  blackened  with  pain, 
And  a  horrible  darkness  crushes  my  brain. 

I  cannot  see  you — the  end  is  nigh — 
But  we'll  laugh  together  before  I  die. 

Through  awful  chasms  I  plunge  and  fall — 
Your  hand,  good  fellow, — I  die — that's  all. 


54 


EREBUS 

THERE'S  a  mossy,  sunken  grave, 
In  the  solemn  land  of  dreams, 

All  alone ; 

Where  the  dusky  branches  wave 
O'er  the  banks  of  sable  streams, 

With  a  moan : 
A  dull  sky  spans  it  overhead, 

Like  a  tomb ; 
The  wan  stars  glimmer  far  away 

In  the  gloom ; 
And  a  pale  moon  gleams 
On  the  haunts  of  the  dead, 
Where  the  ghouls  and  the  demons  play. 
And  the  souls  that  wander  here 
See  each  other  very  clear ; 
And  remember, — but  weep  not ! 
Remember, — but  sleep  not ! 
Remember, — but  cannot  pray  ! 


55 


LETHE 


SWEET  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape ! 
Flood  this  heavy  heart  of  mine ! 
Turn  it  into  ruddy  wine ! 
Through  my  veins,  with  golden  glow, 
Airy  spirit,  flash  and  flow ! 
Deify  this  clod  of  clay  ! 
Waft  my  willing  soul  away ! 


II 


Dark  and  sad  my  fancies  are — 
Tired  of  peace  and  tired  of  war. 
Joke  of  jester,  prank  of  clown, 
Weigh  my  heavy  eyelids  down. 
All  philosophies  are  drear ; 
Music's  jargon  in  my  ear ; 
Endless  tides  of  empty  talk 
Babble  round  me  where  I  walk ; 
I  am  deafened  by  the  din 
That  the  world  is  wrangling  in. 
56 


Ill 


Prince  of  sunrise,  fiery  wine, 
Let  me  lose  my  soul  in  thine ! 
Close  my  eyes  and  stop  my  ears 
To  all  a  mortal  sees  or  hears : — 
Roll  of  drums,  and  clash  of  swords, 
Fretful  snarl  of  angry  words, 
Church,  and  State,  and  bond,  and  free, 
Party,  creed,  and  policy, 
Tattle,  prattle,  laugh,  and  groan, 
Crozier,  sceptre,  flag,  and  throne, 
Garrulous  and  grand  debate 
Which  of  moles  is  small  or  great, 
Whom  to  pray  for,  who  shall  pray, 
And  what  agile  critics  say. 

IV 

Sun  of  rubies,  radiant  wine, 
Melt  my  being  into  thine ! 
So  my  dream  of  death  shall  bless 
Memory  with  forgetfulness. 
No  more  weary,  wasting  thought 
On  a  past  so  folly-fraught ! 
No  more  dreams  of  love-lit  eyes, 
Silken  hair  and  tender  sighs, 
And  wild  kisses  sweet,  that  shake 
The  frame  of  being  ! — poor  mistake ! 
Nor  that  other,  just  as  poor, — 
Toil  for  praise  of  sage  or  boor : 
57 


Fire,  that  burnishes  a  crown, 
Fire,  that  burns  a  kingdom  down, 
Fire,  that  ravages  his  breast 
Who  takes  ambition  for  its  guest ! 
But  at  last,  instead  of  these, 
Sunset  cloud  and  evening  breeze, 
Holy  starlight  shining  dim, 
Organ  wail  and  vesper  hymn, 
Cypress  wreath  and  asphodels, 
Gentle  toll  of  distant  bells, — 
All  that  makes  the  sleeper  blest 
In  a  bed  of  endless  rest. 


When  this  farce  of  life  is  o'er, 
Are  we  fretted  any  more  ? 
Do  they  rest,  I'd  like  to  know, 
Under  grass  or  under  snow, 
Who  have  gone  that  silent  way 
You  and  I  must  go,  some  day? 
If  they  do,  it  seems  to  me 
Happy  were  it  thus  to  be 
Sleeping  where  the  violets  grow, 
And  the  bramble-roses  blow, 
And  the  sunshine  pours  its  gold 
On  mossy  rock  and  woodland  old, 
While  gentle  winds,  and  clouds  of  fleece, 
And  rippling  waters  whisper — peace  ! 
58 


VI 

Vain  the  fancy  :  nothing  dies  : 
Falling  water  falls  to  rise ; 
Round  and  round  the  atoms  fly, — 
Turf,  and  stone,  and  sea,  and  sky, 
Vapor-drop  and  blood  of  man, — 
In  the  inexorable  plan. 
All  is  motion :  nothing  dies : 
Mystery  of  mysteries  ! 

VII 

Royal  road  of  blest  escape ! 
Sweet  oblivion,  blood  of  grape, 
Let  me  take  thy  hue  and  shape ! 
In  thy  spirit  floating  free, 
I  shall  be  a  reverie, 
A  flitting  thought,  a  fading  dream, 
A  melting  cloud,  a  faint  moonbeam, 
A  breath,  a  mist,  a  ghost  of  light, 
To  rise  and  vanish  in  the  night, — 
Unseeing  all,  by  all  unseen, 
And  being  as  I  had  not  been. 


59 


THE    ORDEAL 


ANGEL  of  Grief  !  thy  spectral  passage  winging 
Above  black  waves  and  under  moonless  skies, 

Where  nevermore  is  heard  the  voice  of  singing, 
Nor  any  light  e'er  falls  from  beauty's  eyes, 
Now  wave  thy  sable  pinion  where  he  lies 

Whom  to  destroy  thy  fancy  did  create  I 

In  diamond  pomp  thy  summons  bade  him  rise, 

And  thine  the  blight  that  cursed  his  human  state 

And  left  him  ocean-tost,  forlorn,  and  desolate. 


II 


Man  lives  not  as  he  would,  but  as  he  must ! 

Deep  in  his  soul  the  current  of  his  doom 
Runs  darkly ;  that  this  clod  of  fevered  dust, 

Desiring  heaven,  and  drifting  to  a  tomb, 

Wantons  in  revelry,  or  droops  in  gloom, 
Exults  in  action,  falters  in  defeat, 

E'en  as  thy  spirit  doth  its  life  illume, 
Making  its  blood  a  torrent  fierce  and  fleet, 
Or  as  some  stagnant  pool  where  death  and  darkness  meet. 

60 


Ill 


Thou  didst  create  this  being  all  of  fire, 

But  'twas  not  all  from  heaven ;  the  grosser  flame 

Glowed  with  the  finer, — till  his  mad  desire 
Revelled  in  wild  delights,  contemning  shame 
And  staining  the  white  crest  of  noble  fame  : 

Yet  all  the  while  thy  spirit  fed  his  heart 

With  wildering  dreams  and  hopes,  till  he  became 

A  soul  of  thy  dark  strain,  and  dwelt  apart, — 

The  visionary  child  of  genius  and  of  art. 


IV 


From  earliest  youth  his  spirit  kept  its  throne 
By  the  sea's  marge,  or  on  the  mountain  height, 

Or  in  the  forest  deeps,  or  meadow  lone, 

Where  the  long  shadows  fall,  as  comes  the  night, 
And  spectral  shapes  gleam  on  the  startled  sight 

And  vanish  with  low  sighs :  the  darkling  caves 
That  line  the  murm'rous  shore  were  his  delight, 

Where  the  defeated  billow  chafes  and  raves, 

And  much  he  loved  the  stars  that  shine  on  lonely  graves. 


By  night  he  roamed  along  the  haunted  shore, 
And  on  the  vacant  summit  of  the  hills 

Held  converse  with  the  vast ;  while  evermore 
The  awful  mystery  with  which  Nature  thrills, — 
Whispering  the  poet's  heart,  and  thence  distils 

61 


The  essence  of  her  beauty, — wrapt  his  soul, 

Buoyant  and  glorious,  with  such  power  as  fills 
The  dread  expanse  where  sky  and  ocean  roll, 
Thought  measureless  supreme,  and  feeling  past  control. 


VI 


Among  the  haunts  of  men  a  wanderer  still, 

He  walked  a  dusky  pathway,  all  his  own  ; 
For  men  were  not  his  mates — their  good,  their  ill 

Were  things  by  him  unfelt,  to  him  unknown — 

An  empty  laughter  or  an  idle  moan ; 
And  they  that  saw  him  passed  him  coldly  by, 

And  thus  he  roved  his  shadowy  world  alone, — 
A  world  of  haunting  shapes  and  phantasy, 
And   life    a    dream   that    longed    and    dreaded    not 
to  die. 


VII 


This  is  the  bitter  close, — that  in  their  flow, 
The  stern  years  ravage  from  us,  one  by  one, 

Each  hope  that  sanctifies  a  life  of  woe, 
All  that  is  fair  and  bright  beneath  the  sun, 
And  that  sweet  faith  with  which  our  days  begun ; 

Till  not  one  glimmering  ray  from  heavenly  spheres, 
O'er  longings  thwarted  and  high  aims  undone, 

Gilds  the  bleak  stream  of  those  remorseless  years, 

And  quenched  the  spring  of  joy,  and  dried  the  fount 
of  tears. 

62 


VIII 

Close,  close  around  us  draws  the  prison  shade, 
And  ever  closer,  as  our  moments  glide — 

The  iron  web  of  doom  ourselves  have  made, 
By  fealty  to  the  power  which  doth  reside 
Within  ourselves,  not  once  to  be  denied, 

Nor  curbed,  nor  conquered  !     Action  doth  but  make 
A  past  to  be  remembered ;  and  the  pride 

Of  mightiest  will  that  would  life's  guidance  take 

Must,  like  the  frailest  heart,  at  last  repine  and  break. 


IX 


This  fate  was  his — but  not  in  darkness  all 
Ran  the  wild  current  of  his  days  and  deeds ; 

Still  on  the  ruined  fane  the  moonlight  falls, 
And  still  the  radiant  dawn  the  night  succeeds, 
And  his  the  gentlest  heart  that  soonest  bleeds, 

And  thus  the  first  to  love  and  to  be  blest 
With  that  great  glory  of  all  human  needs 

Which,  whether  crowned  or  martyred,  still  is  best — 

The  angel  regnant  once  within  the  human  breast. 


To  love  and  to  be  loved — to  have  the  bliss, 
The  perfect  heaven  of  one  responsive  soul ; 

To  feel  the  throbbing  heart,  the  burning  kiss, 

When  thought  and  feeling,  loosed  from  all  control, 
Like  torrents  to  the  sea  tumultuous  roll, 

63 


And  life  becomes  all  rapture — this  he  knew ! 
And,  knowing  this,  however  fate  may  dole 
Her  mercies  forth,  the  many  or  the  few, 
No  flower  is  left  to  bloom  that  e'er  in  Eden  grew. 


XI 


He  loved — he  lost — and  from  that  fatal  hour 

His  soul  was  haunted  by  one  heavenly  face ; 
One  sacred  name  had  ever  more  the  power 

To  shed  a  glory  upon  every  place, 

And  gild  each  moment  with  a  deathless  grace ! — 
His  heart  had  worshipped  and  his  quest  had  found, 

And  now,  though  cold  and  empty  his  embrace, 
His  lonely  footsteps  fell  on  holy  ground, 
With  angel  shapes  and  tones  forever  circling  round. 


XII 


The  dying  light  of  sunset ;  the  low  sigh 

Of  whispering  winds  that  stir  the  fallen  leaves ; 
The  golden  host  of  stars ;  the  midnight  sky ; 

The  mystic  sea,  that  not  exults  nor  grieves ; 

The  rosy  magic  of  the  dawn  that  weaves 
Its  web  of  beauty,  fading  while  it  grows, — 

All  that  they  mean  the  hallowed  heart  receives, 
Sealed  with  the  sacrament  that  grief  bestows, 
And  all  that  Nature  has  of  tender  mystery 
knows. 

64 


XIII 


Angel  of  Sorrow  !  though  thy  fevered  hand 

Drop  on  the  stricken  heart  a  cross  of  fire ; 
Though  gloom  and  sighs  and  tears,  a  grisly  band, 

Watch  round  his  midnight  couch  till  hope  expire ; 

Though  faith  give  o'er,  and  heavenly  patience  tire, 
And  naught  remain  but  bitter,  bleak  despair, 

Yet  dost  thou  lift  thy  hapless  victim  higher ! — 
With  nothing  left  to  lose,  he  all  may  dare ! 
Who  scorns  the  dart  of  death  heeds  not  the  frown  of  care  ! 


XIV 


His  o'er-fraught  bosom  and  his  haunted  brain 

Gave  out  their  music,  and  then  ceased  to  be, — 
A  strange,  a  weird,  a  melancholy  strain, 

Like  the  low  moaning  of  the  distant  sea ! 

And  when  death  harshly  set  his  spirit  free 
From  frenzied  days  and  penury  and  blight, 

At  least  'twas  tender  mercy's  kind  decree, — 
Shrining  his  name  in  memory's  living  light, 
With  thoughts  that  gild  the  day  and  charm  the  lingering 
night. 


XV 


He  was  the  voice  of  beauty  and  of  woe, 

Passion  and  mystery  and  the  dread  unknown ; 

Pure  as  the  mountains  of  perpetual  snow, 
Cold  as  the  icy  winds  that  round  them  moan, 
Dark  as  the  caves  wherein  earth's  thunders  groan, 

65 


Wild  as  the  tempests  of  the  upper  sky, 

Sweet  as  the  faint,  far-off,  celestial  tone 
Of  angel  whispers,  fluttering  from  on  high, 
And  tender  as  love's  tear  when  youth  and  beauty  die. 


XVI 


Oh,  if  he  sinned  he  suffered  !     Let  'him  rest, 
Who,  in  this  world,  had  little  but  its  pain ! 

The  life  of  patient  virtue  still  is  blest — 
But  there  be  bosoms  powerless  to  restrain 
The  surging  tempests  of  the  heart  and  brain ; 

Souls  that  are  driven  madly  o'er  the  deep, 
Their  passions  fatal  and  their  struggle  vain ; 

Men  that  in  nameless  grief  their  vigils  keep, 

With  marble  lips,  and  eyes  that  burn  but  cannot  weep. 


XVII 

Far  from  the  blooming  field  and  fragrant  wood, 

The  shining  songster  of  the  summer  sky, 
O'er  ocean's  black  and  frightful  solitude 

Driven  on  broken  wing,  must  sink  and  die ; 

So  on  the  ocean  of  eternity, 
Far  from  man's  help  and  all  things  bright  and  warm, 

Broken  and  lost,  but  with  no  lingering  sigh — 
For  death,  at  last,  is  peace — his  ravaged  form 
Sank  in  the  weltering  wave,  and  no  more  felt  the  storm. 

66 


XVIII 

His  music  dies  not — nor  can  ever  die — 

Blown  round  the  world  by  every  wandering  wind ; 
The  comet,  lessening  in  the  midnight  sky, 

Still  leaves  its  trail  of  glory  far  behind. 

Death  cannot  quench  the  lustre  of  the  mind, 
Nor  hush  the  seraph  song  that  beauty  sings ; 

Still  in 'the  poet's  soul  must  Nature  find 
Her  voice  for  every  secret  that  she  brings, 
To  all  that  dwell  beneath  the  brooding  of  her  wings. 

XIX 

The  silent  waves  of  time's  eternal  sea 

Roll  o'er  the  silent  relics  of  the  dead ; 
But,  wafted  on  those  waters,  wide  and  free, 

How  bright,  how  fleet  his  starry  songs  are  sped ! 

Black  gleams  the  deep  beneath,  but  overhead 
All  heaven  is  glorious  with  its  orbs  of  light, 

While,  like  a  spirit  loosed  from  ocean's  bed, 
Lo  !    one  clear  echo,  sounding  through  the  night, 
Floats  up  the  crystal  slopes  of  life's  far  mountain-height. 


67 


THE    WHITE    FLAG 


BRING  poppies  for  a  weary  mind 
That  saddens  in  a  senseless  din, 

And  let  my  spirit  leave  behind 
A  world  of  riot  and  of  sin, — 

In  action's  torpor  deaf  and  blind. 

Bring  poppies — that  I  may  forget ! 

Bring  poppies — that  I  may  not  learn ! 
But  bid  the  audacious  sun  to  set, 

And  bid  the  peaceful  starlight  burn, 
O'er  buried  memory  and  regret. 

Then  will  the  slumberous  grasses  grow 
Above  the  bed  wherein  I  sleep ; 

While  winds  I  love  will  softly  blow, 
And  dews  I  love  will  softly  weep, 

O'er  rest  and  silence  hid  below. 

Bring  poppies, — for  this  toil  is  vain ; 

I  cannot  guide  the  rush  of  life : 
A  stronger  hand  must  grasp  the  rein, 

.  A  stouter  arm  oppose  the  strife, 
A  braver  heart  defy  the  pain. 
68 


Youth  was  my  friend, — but  youth  had  wings, 

And  he  has  flown  unto  the  day, 
And  left  me,  in  a  night  of  things, 

Bewildered,  on  a  lonesome  way, 
And  careless  what  the  future  brings. 

Let  there  be  sleep !  nor  any  more 
The  noise  of  useless  deed  or  word ; 

While  the  free  spirit  hovers  o'er 

A  sea  where  not  a  sound  is  heard — 

A  sea  of  dreams,  without  a  shore. 


II 


Dark  Angel,  counselling  defeat, 
I  see  thy  mournful,  tender  eyes ; 

I  hear  thy  voice,  so  faint,  so  sweet, 
And  very  dearly  should  I  prize 

Thy  perfect  peace,  thy  rest  complete. 

But  is  it  rest  to  vanish  hence, 

To  mix  with  earth,  or  sea,  or  air  ? 

Is  death  indeed  a  full  defence 
Against  the  tyranny  of  care? 

Or  is  it  cruellest  pretence? 

And,  if  an  hour  of  peace  draws  nigh, 
Shall  we,  who  know  the  arts  of  war, 

Turn  from  the  field  and  basely  fly, 
Nor  take  what  fate  reserves  us  for, 

Because  we  dream  'twere  sweet  to  die? 
69 


What  shall  the  untried  warriors  do, 
If  we,  the  battered  veterans,  fail  ? 

How  strive,  and  suffer,  and  be  true, 
In  storms  that  make  our  spirits  quail, 

Except  our  valor  lead  them  through? 

Though  for  ourselves  we  droop  and  tire, 
Let  us  at  least  for  them  be  strong. 

'Tis  but  to  bear  familiar  fire ; 
Life  at  the  longest  is  not  long, 

And  peace  at  last  will  crown  desire. 

So,  Death,  I  will  not  hear  thee  speak ! 

But  I  will  live  and  still  endure 
All  storms  of  pain  that  time  can  wreak. 

My  flag  be  white  because  'tis  pure, 
And  not  because  my  soul  is  weak ! 


70 


JUBEL 

SURGE  up  in  wanton  waves  to-day, 
Ye  memories  of  a  restless  past ! 

In  shine  and  shadow  glance  and  play, — 
This  golden  moment  is  your  last. 

Float,  phantoms,  o'er  a  sapphire  sea, — 
Remembered  joy,  remembered  pain, 

Passions  and  fears  that  used  to  be, 
But  never  can  be  mine  again ! 

Sweet  visions,  faded  long  ago, 
So  beautiful,  and  once  so  dear, — 

That  wrought  alike  my  bliss  and  woe, — 
Your  welcome  and  farewell  are  here. 

For  now  no  more  can  fancy  wile 

My  steadfast  heart  with  dreams  untrue : 

I  give  you  each  a  parting  smile, 
I  give  you  all  a  glad  adieu. 

As  one  whose  soul,  on  vibrant  wings 
Of  new-born  freedom,  mounts  the  skies, 

Spurning  the  earth,  my  spirit  springs 
To  scale  the  peaks  of  paradise. 
71 


The  sunshine  wraps  me  in  its  arms, 
Wild  winds  of  power  around  me  blow, 

And  heaven's  ablaze  with  starry  charms 
To  bless  the  path  whereon  I  go. 

For  mine  is  now  the  ardent  truth 
And  secret  of  an  angel's  kiss ; 

The  valley  of  immortal  youth ; 

The  sacred  mountain-height  of  bliss ! 


IDLENESS 

THE  clouds  drift  and  the  rivers  flow, 
Not  caring  how  nor  where  they  go, 
And  ev'ry  sound  of  action  seems 
Like  fairy  music  heard  in  dreams. 
Why  should  we  fret  our  peace  away, 
Who  have  so  little  time  to  stay  ? 
Since  Nature,  with  so  much  to  do, 
Can  rest,  let  us  be  idle,  too. 


GEORGE   ARNOLD 

BENEATH  the  still  November  sky, 
With  Nature's  peace  and  beauty  blest, 

We  put  our  selfish  sorrow  by, 

And  laid  our  comrade  down  to  rest. 

Rest, — in  the  morning  of  his  days ! 

Rest, — when  his  heart  had  just  begun 
To  feel  the  warmth  of  rip'ning  praise, 

The  radiance  of  the  rising  sun ! 

Rest, — to  a  strong  and  stately  mind, 
That  rose  all  common  flights  above ! 

Rest, — to  a  heart  as  true  and  kind 
As  ever  glowed  with  human  love ! 

And  round  him,  dimly,  through  our  grief 
In  every  natural  sound  we  heard, — 

In  whispering  grass,  and  rustling  leaf, 
And  sighing  wind, — the  same  sweet  word 

Rest !    And  we  did  not  break  the  spell 

By  holy  Nature  woven  round 
The  fading  form  we  left  to  dwell 

Forever  in  her  hallowed  ground. 
73 


No  hymns  were  sung,  no  prayers  were  said, 
Save  what  our  loving  hearts  could  say, 

When,  mutely  gazing  on  the  dead, 
We  blessed  him  ere  we  turned  away : 

Back  to  the  round  of  daily  care, 

That  seems  so  vacant  to  us  now, 
Remembering  what  repose  was  there, 

What  peace,  upon  his  marble  brow. 

And  so  we  left  him, — nevermore 

To  see,  in  sunshine  or  in  rain, 
The  semblance  of  the  form  he  wore 

Whose  loss  has  steeped  our  souls  in  pain. 

But,  long  as  skies  of  autumn  smile, 
And  long  as  clouds  of  autumn  weep, 

Or  autumn  leaves  their  splendors  pile 
In  sorrow  o'er  their  poet's  sleep ; 

And  long  as  violets  grace  the  spring, 
Or  June-born  roses  blush  and  blow, 

Or  pale  stars  shine,  or  south  winds  sing, 
Or  tides  of  summer  ebb  and  flow ; 

So  long  shall  live  their  poet's  name, 

When  rest  these  broken  hearts  of  ours, — 

Embalmed  in  love,  surpassing  fame, 

With  stars,  and  leaves,  and  clouds,  and  flowers ! 


74 


ADA 

SPRING  will  return,  and  woods  grow  green 

From  shore  to  shore ; 
But  she,  unseeing  and  unseen, 

Returns  no  more. 

Low  in  the  ground  her  sleep  is  sweet, 

And  dark,  and  long ; 
No  more  she  treads,  with  wandering  feet, 

Our  maze  of  wrong. 

No  more  the  world's  rebuke  can  fret 

Her  soul's  repose ; 
Nor  kindness  woo  her  to  forget 

Her  bitter  woes. 

She  will  not  stir,  nor  speak,  nor  heed, 

Though  eyes  that  weep, 
And  sorrow-stricken  hearts  that  bleed, 

Beseech  her  sleep. 

Yet,  be  it  mine,  above  her  pall, 

To  shed  one  tear, 
And  speak  one  word  of  love,  that  all 

The  world  may  hear. 
75 


A  brother's  place  in  that  fond  breast 

'Twas  mine  to  hold  : 
Ah,  they  loved  most  who  knew  her  best, — 

That  heart  of  gold. 

She  was  more  kind  than  slumbers  are 

To  eyes  that  grieve ; 
And,  like  the  constant  northern  star, 

Could  ne'er  deceive. 

There  was  no  sorrow  on  the  earth 

But  touched  her  heart ; 
And  in  all  gentle,  childlike  mirth 

She  bore  a  part. 

There  was  no  goodness  but  it  won 

Her  reverent  praise, 
And  full  of  kind  deeds,  simply  done, 

Were  all  her  days. 

She  strove,  through  trouble's  lasting  blight, 

For  pathways  smooth, 
And  many  hands  she  found  to  smite, 

And  few  to  soothe. 

A  child,  whom  cruel  want  has  made 

A  thing  forlorn, 
Stretching  its  little  hands  for  aid, 

To  eyes  that  scorn  ; 
76 


And  wand'ring  through  the  winter  night, 

For  beggar's  dole, 
Is  not  more  piteous  in  its  plight 

Than  was  her  soul. 

Yet  did  she  hope,  and  toil,  and  wait, 

Heaven's  will  to  know, 
Till  came  the  awful  stroke  of  fate 

That  laid  her  low. 

Sleep  softly,  softly,  true  and  tried, 

Where  troubles  cease ; 
And  take  at  last,  what  Life  denied, 

Death's  gift  of  peace. 


77 


BEYOND    THE    DARK 

THERE'S  a  region  afar  from  earth 

Should  be  very  happy  to-day ; 
For  a  sweet  soul,  ripe  for  its  birth, 

Has  flown  from  its  prison  away. 
And  I  think,  as  I  muse  alone, 

While  the  night  is  falling  around, 
Of  a  cold,  white,  glimmering  stone, 

And  a  desolate,  grassy  mound ; 
Of  eyes  that  will  shine  never  more, 

Of  hands  that  have  finished  their  task ; — 
And  my  heart  is  heavy  and  sore, 

And  my  thought  is  eager  to  ask 
If,  at  last,  all  things  will  be  well, 

In  the  morning  beyond  the  dark; 
What  secret  the  pale  lips  could  tell 

Of  the  sleeper  silent  and  stark. 
But  there  comes  a  murmur  of  trees, 

That  wave  their  glad  branches,  and  bring 
Blossoms  and  leaves,  to  shake  in  the  breeze, 

From  miraculous  spring  to  spring ; 
And  they  whisper  that  all  is  well, 

For  the  same  hand  is  guiding  us  all, 
Whether  'tis  felt  in  man's  death-knell, 

Or  in  autumn  leaves  as  they  fall. 
78 


And  so  many  have  gone  before, 

That  the  voice  of  another  sphere 
Floats  oft  from  o'er  a  sable  shore, 

And  pierces  the  shadow  of  fear. 
O  heart  that  forever  is  still, 

Thou  wilt  ache  with  trouble  no  more, 
Nor  know  of  the  good  or  the  ill 

Of  a  lunatic  world's  uproar ! 
Nor  care  for  the  great  or  the  small 

Of  a  strange,  bewildering  life, 
That  oft  seems  dust  and  ashes  all, 

And  is  mostly  a  vapid  strife ! 
For  the  end  is  the  peace  of  grass, 

And  the  spirit,  ever  to  be : 
One  for  us  to  feel  as  we  pass, 

The  other  encompassing  thee. 
Clouds  sail,  and  the  bright  waters  flow, 

And  our  spirits  must  journey  on ; 
But  it  cannot  be  ill  to  go 

The  way  upon  which  thou  hast  gone. 


79 


ASLEEP 


HE  knelt  beside  her  pillow  in  the  dead  watch  of  the 

night, 
And  he  heard  her  gentle  breathing,  but  her  face  was 

still  and  white, 
And  on  her  poor,  wan  cheek  a  tear  told  how  the  heart 

can  weep, 
And  he  said,  *  My  love  was  weary — God  bless  her  ! 

she's  asleep.' 


II 


He  knelt  beside  her  grave-stone  in  the  shuddering 

autumn  night, 
And  he  heard  the  dry  grass  rustle,  and  his  face  was 

thin  and  white, 
And  through  his  heart  the  tremor  ran  of  grief  that 

cannot  weep, 
And  he  said,  *  My  love  was  weary — God  bless  her  ! 

she's  asleep.' 


80 


HOMEWARD   BOUND 

ON  roseate  shores,  in  evening's  glow, 

With  pulsing  music  soft  and  sweet, 
While  winds  of  summer  gently  blow, 

The  waves  of  time's  great  ocean  beat ; 
No  cloud  obscures  the  heavenly  dome, 

And  only  on  the  shining  sea 
The  tossing  crests  of  silver  foam 

Presage  the  tempest  yet  to  be. 


Low  down  upon  the  ocean's  verge, 

Blent  with  the  waters  and  the  skies, 
Far,  far  across  the  sounding  surge 

The  golden  city's  towers  arise : 
Fair  in  the  sunset  light  they  gleam, 

Youth's  chosen  realm,  bold  manhood's  goal, 
The  promised  land  of  fancy's  dream, 

The  golden  city  of  the  soul ! 


How  softly  bright,  how  purely  cold, 
Those  domes  and  pinnacles  of  bliss ! 

How  radiant,  through  its  gates  of  gold, 
That  world  of  rapture  smiles  on  this  ! 
81 


How  glorious,  in  the  dying  day, 

O'er  bastion  ridge  and  glimmering  moat, 
Through  rainbow  clouds  and  rosy  spray, 

Its  purple  banners  flash  and  float ! 

There,  safe  from  every  mortal  ill, 

Waits  every  wasted  wish  of  man ; 
The  hopes  that  time  could  ne'er  fulfil, 

And  only  Death  and  Nature  can  ! 
There  peace  will  touch  the  eyes  of  grief, 

And  mercy  soothe  the  heart  of  pain ; 
And  every  bud,  and  flower,  and  leaf 

That  withered  here  will  bloom  again ! 

Ah,  sailor  to  the  golden  realm, 

With  hope's  glad  haven  clear  before, 
Why  muse  beside  the  idle  helm, 

With  listless  glances  back  to  shore? 
Night  hovers  o'er  his  trackless  way, 

To  blot  the  stars  and  dim  the  land ; 
What  voice  is  at  his  heart,  to  stay 

The  signal  waf ture  of  his  hand  ? 

Not  thus,  in  other  days,  his  soul 

Of  power  and  trust  could  wander  back, — 
But  saw  the  mists  of  time  unroll, 

And  angels  throng  the  shining  track ; 
Heard  mystic  voices,  from  afar, 

Of  warders  on  the  sacred  coast ; 
Sprang  up  to  meet  the  morning  star 

And  mingle  with  the  heavenly  host. 
82 


But  he  has  borne  the  rage  of  storms, 

Through  many  a  slow  and  patient  year, 
Still  following  those  celestial  forms 

That  beckon  and  elude  him  here ; 
Till  doubt  has  dimmed  his  eager  gaze, 

And  toil  subdued  his  ardent  mind, 
And  sorrow  burdened  all  his  days 

With  quest  of  peace  he  could  not  find. 

Her  kiss  is  cold  upon  his  lips, 

Who  swore  to  be  forever  true ; 
His  eyes  have  seen  youth's  phantom  ships 

Fade  down  beyond  the  distant  blue ; 
His  hand  has  cleared  the  gathering  moss 

From  many  a  tablet,  cold  and  white, 
Where,  dark  with  sense  of  doom  and  loss, 

His  comrades  sleep,  in  starless  night. 

The  wayward  shafts  of  cruel  fate, 

That  strike  the  best  and  purest  lives ; 
The  curse  of  blessings  come  too  late ; 

The  broken  faith  that  life  survives ; 
Love's  frail  pretence,  ambition's  lure, 

Malignant  envy's  poisoned  dart, 
That  wounds  and  tortures,  past  a  cure, 

The  mangled,  seared,  embittered  heart  ;- 

The  weary,  wistful,  sad  repose 

Of  ardor  quenched  and  feeling  sped ; 

The  arid  calm  he  only  knows 

Whose  hope  is, — like  his  idols, — dead  ; 
83 


All  that  repentant  spirits  bear, 

For  sin  and  folly  past  recall, 
Remorse,  endurance,  patience,  care — 

His  soul  has  known  and  borne  them  all. 

Ah,  touch  him  gently,  winds  of  night, 

And  ocean  odors,  vague  and  strange, 
Revive  his  morn  of  young  delight — 

Supreme  o'er  doubt,  and  fear,  and  change  ! 
The  fading  tints  of  life  restore, 

The  wasted  fires  of  youth  relume, 
And  round  his  radiant  path  once  more 

Let  music  sound  and  roses  bloom ! 

Long  has  he  gazed  in  Nature's  eyes, 

Long  kept  the  faith  her  glory  yields, — 
The  pageant  of  the  starry  skies, 

The  flowery  pomp  of  spangled  fields, 
The  fragrant  depth  of  woodland  ways, 

White  in  the  moon,  or  dusk  and  dim, 
And  lonely  mountain  tops  that  blaze 

Through  sunset  lustre,  vast  and  grim. 

Long  has  he  bowed  at  Nature's  shrine — 

Shall  Nature's  soul  desert  him  now? 
Ah !    shine  again,  thou  star  divine, 

And  touch  with  light  his  darkening  brow ! 
Though  pleasures  pall,  though  idols  fall, 

Though  wisdom  end  in  long  regret, 
Death's  glorious  conquest  pays  for  all, 

And  He  who  made  will  not  forget !   .  .  . 
84 


The  day  is  done,  the  storm  is  free, 

And  night  and  danger  ride  the  gale ; 
But,  bravely  speeding,  far  at  sea, 

Gleams,  white  and  clear,  a  lessening  sail ! 
One  moment  seen,  now  lost  to  sight, 

'Mid  driving  cloud  and  ocean's  roar ; 
But,  steered  by  Mercy's  beacon-light, 

He  yet  shall  reach  the  golden  shore ! 


85 


BROUGHAM 

IF  buds  by  hopes  of  spring  are  blessed 

That  sleep  beneath  the  snow, 
And  hearts  by  coming  joys  caressed, 

Which  yet  they  dimly  know, — 
On  fields  where  England's  daisies  gleam, 

And  Ireland's  shamrocks  bloom, 
To-day  shall  summer,  in  her  dream, 

Be  glad  with  thoughts  of  Brougham. 

To-day,  o'er  miles  and  miles  of  sea, 

Beneath  the  jocund  sun, 
With  merrier  force  and  madder  glee 

The  bannered  winds  shall  run : 
To-day  great  waves  shall  ramp  and  reel, 

And  clash  their  shields  of  foam, 
With  bliss  to  feel  the  coming  keel 

That  bears  the  wanderer  home ! 

For  he  that,  loved  and  honored  here, 

(God  bless  his  silver  head  ! ) 
O'er  many  a  heart,  for  many  a  year, 

The  dew  of  joy  has  shed, 
Longs  for  the  land  that  gave  him  birth, 

Turns  back  to  boy  again, 
And,  bright  with  all  the  flags  of  mirth, 

Sails  homeward  o'er  the  main. 
86 


Ah,  well  may  winds  and  waves  be  gay, 

And  flowers  and  streams  rejoice, 
And  that  sweet  region  far  away 

Become  one  greeting  voice ; 
For  he  draws  backward  to  that  place, 

Who  ne'er,  by  deed  or  art, 
Made  darkness  in  one  human  face, 

Or  sorrow  in  one  heart ! 

He  comes,  whom  all  the  rosy  sprites 

That  round  Thalia  throng 
Have  tended  close  through  golden  nights 

Of  laughter,  wit,  and  song ; 
Whom  love's  bright  angels  still  have  known,- 

He  ne'er  forgot  to  hear 
The  helpless  widow's  suppliant  moan, 

Or  dry  the  orphan's  tear. 

Where  boughs  of  oak  and  willow  toss, 

His  life's  white  pathway  flows, — 
With  many  an  odor  blown  across, 

Of  lily  and  of  rose. 
His  gentle  life,  that  blessings  crown, 

Is  fame  no  chance  can  dim ; 
We  honor  manhood's  best  renown 

When  now  we  honor  him. 

Grief  may  stand  silent  in  the  eye, 

And  silent  on  the  lip, 
When,  poised  between  the  sea  and  sky, 

Dips  down  the  fading  ship ; 
87 


But  there's  one  charm  his  heart  to  keep 
And  hold  his  constant  mind, — 

He'll  find  no  love  beyond  the  deep 
Like  that  he  leaves  behind  ! 

So,  to  thy  breast,  old  ocean,  take 

This  brother  of  our  soul ! 
Ye  winds,  be  gentle  for  his  sake ! 

Ye  billows,  smoothly  roll ! 
And  thou,  sad  Ireland,  green  and  fair, 

Across  the  waters  wild 
Stretch  forth  strong  arms  of  loving  care, 

And  guard  thy  cherished  child ! 

And  whether  back  to  us  he  drift, 

Or  pass  beyond  our  view, 
Where  life's  celestial  mountains  lift 

Their  peaks  above  the  blue, — 
His  will  be  done,  whose  gracious  will, 

Through  all  our  mortal  fret, 
The  sacred  blessing  leaves  us  still, 

To  love,  and  not  forget. 


88 


A  WELCOME 


A  PERFUME  that  all  sense  delights 
Enchants  us  most  on  summer  nights, 
And  music,  Nature's  kindest  boon, 
Is  sweetest  'neath  the  summer  moon : 
For  summer  night  and  moonlight  give 
Quiet  and  grace,  in  which  we  live  ; 
In  which  alone  the  prisoned  soul 
Finds,  if  not  words,  at  least  control, 
And,  for  a  moment,  lifts  us  far 
To  realms  where  saints  and  angels  are. 
So  friendship's  soft  and  tender  voice 
Sounds  clearest  when  our  hearts  rejoice : 
For,  when  contentment  warms  the  heart, 
Dull  thoughts  and  sordid  cares  depart, — 
By  love  exhaled, — and  in  their  place 
Burns  the  rich  glow  of  peace  and  grace. 
And  then  we  see  each  other  clear ; 
The  voice  within  the  voice  we  hear ; 
And  deep  thoughts  surge  to  eye  and  cheek, 
Nor  words,  nor  smiles,  nor  tears  can  speak ! 
The  old  love-ditties  that  were  sung, 
The  whispered  vows,  when  we  were  young, 
The  silken  touch  of  fragrant  tress, 
89 


The  maiden's  awful  loveliness, 
Starlight  and  sea-breeze,  beach  and  spray, 
The  sunshine  of  some  sacred  day, 
A  mother's  kiss  on  lip  and  brow, 
The  tones  of  loved  ones,  silent  now, 
The  light  that  nevermore  will  gleam, 
The  broken  hope,  the  vanished  dream, — 
All  these  come  thronging  through  the  brain, 
Till,  half  with  joy  and  half  with  pain, 
Our  souls  break  loose  from  common  things, 
And  soar  aloft  on  angel  wings ; 
Out  of  the  tumult  and  the  glare, 
The  fretful  strife,  the  feverish  care, 
To  that  great  life  of  peace  and  grace 
That  waits  the  suffering  human  race ; 
That  larger  life  than  sight  or  sound, 
Wherewith  great  Nature  folds  us  round. — 
This  is  the  magic,  this  the  power, 
That  thrills  and  crowns  the  festal  hour ! 


II 


'Tis  summer,  and  the  moon  is  bright, 
And  perfect  gladness  rules  the  night, 
And  through  our  rapture,  gracious,  free, 
A  silver  voice,  across  the  sea, 
In  tender  accents  whispers  sweet, — 
'  Be  kind  to  him  whom  now  you  greet ! 
At  England's  fireside  altar-stone 
His  fame  is  prized,  his  virtue  known  : 
To  England's  heart  his  name  is  dear ; 
90 


To  him  she  gives  her  smile,  her  tear ; 
She  loves  him  for  his  rosy  mirth ; 
She  loves  him  for  his  manly  worth ; 
She  knows  him  bright  as  morning  dew ; 
She  knows  him  faithful,  tender,  true ; 
Her  hope  comes  with  him  o'er  the  deep, 
With  him  to  smile,  with  him  to  weep. 
Ah,  give  him  friendship  that  endures, 
And  take  him  from  her  heart  to  yours ! ' 

III 

That  voice  is  heard.     By  deed  and  cheer, 
We  give  him  loyal  welcome  here ! 
In  Art's  fair  garden,  where  we  stand, 
We  take  him  by  the  strong  right  hand  ; 
In  Friendship's  cup  the  pledge  we  drain, 
And  bind  him  fast  in  Friendship's  chain. 
Honor  the  man,  whate'er  his  stage, 
Who  wields  the  arts  to  cheer  the  age ! 


IV 


Ah,  comrades,  if  I  could  but  say, 
To  point  and  close  this  humble  lay, 
What  other  voices  float  to  me, 
Across  another,  darker  sea, 
What  words  of  cheer  are  wafted  through 
My  fancy's  realm,  to  him  and  you, — 
A  music  then  indeed  might  flow, 
Should  make  your  hearts  and  pulses  glow ! 
For  then  would  ring  out,  rich  and  deep, 
91 


The  royal  tones  of  some  who  sleep, — 

The  brilliant  and  the  wise,  too  soon 

Snatched  from  our  side,  in  manhood's  noon, 

Ere  genius  half  her  vigil  kept, 

For  whom  our  hearts  and  morning  wept : 

And  these  a  welcome,  without  stint, — 

My  feeble  words  can  only  hint, — 

Should  give  this  friend  and  comrade,  come 

So  far  from  kindred  and  from  home. 

But,  this  denied,  I  prattle  on, — 

The  echo,  when  the  music's  gone ; 

With  yet  the  hope  that  words  well-meant 

May  find  a  grace  for  good  intent, 

With  you,  companions,  tried  and  dear, 

With  him,  the  guest  that's  honored  here. 

Nor  will  I  think  he  views  with  scorn 

These  rhymes  of  welcome,  lowly  born  ; 

These  wild-wood  roses,  faint  but  sweet, — 

In  kindness  scattered  at  his  feet. 


THE    HARBINGER 


ORDAINED  to  work  the  heavenly  will, 
Comes  a  bright  angel,  sent  from  far ; 

And  Nature  feels  another  thrill, 
And  Love  has  lit  another  star. 


II 


Earth  was  more  beautiful  because  of  him. 

Wild  flowers  were  born ; 
And  limpid,  bickering  brooks, 
The  poet's  earliest  books, 
Spoke  of  a  new  delight 

Unto  the  morn  : 
And,  in  the  fragrant  night, — 
When  fairies,  sporting  underneath  the  moon, 
In  airy  glee 
And  revelry, 

Make  the  wide  darkness  beautifully  bright, 
Like  brightest  noonday  in  the  heart  of  June,- 
Every  billow  laughed,  and  after 
93 


Seemed  to  chase  its  nimble  laughter ; 

Till  spent, 

With  emulous  merriment, 
It  sunk  to  sleep  in  some  secluded,  cool, 
And  black  and  lucent  pool. 

Ill 


On  meadows  starred  with  daisies 

The  wild  bee  swooned,  in  mazes 

Of  witching  odor,  richer  far 

Than  spikenard,  rose,  and  jasmine  are. 
All  natural  objects  seemed  to  catch  a  rare  and  precious 

gleam. 

Unknowing  why,  the  happy  birds 
Trilled  out  their  hearts  in  seeming  joyous  words, 
All  indistinct,  though  sweet,  to  mortal  ears ; 

Such  as  a  poet  hears, 

With  joy  and  yet  with  tears, 

In  some  ethereal  reverie,  half  vision  and  half  dream. 
Through  breezy  tree-tops  jocund  voices  thrilled, 
And,  deep  in  slumberous  caverns  of  the  ocean, 
Wild  echo  heard,  and  with  an  airy  motion 
Tossed  back  the  greeting  of  a  heart  o'erfilled 
With  gladness,  and  that  speaks  it  o'er  and  o'er, 

Till  bliss  can  say  no  more. 

The  waves  that  whispered  on  the  listening  sands 
Told  the  glad  tidings  unto  many  lands, 
And  the  stars  heard,  and  from  their  wandering  isles 
Dropt  down  the  blessing  of  their  golden  smiles. 

94 


IV 


Touched  by  the  lightning  of  the  Maker's  eyes 

He  spake  in  prophecies, 
Interpreting  the  earth,  the  sea,  the  skies — 
All  that  in  Nature  is  of  mystery, 

And  that  in  man  is  dark, 
All  that  the  perfect  future  is  to  be, 

When  quenched  our  mortal  spark, 
And  souls  imprisoned  are  at  last  set  free : 
Backward  he  gazed,  across  the  eternal  sea, 
And  on  the  ever-lessening  shores  of  time 

Saw  ghosts  of  ruined  empires  wandering  slow. 
Then,  onward  looking,  saw  the  radiant  bow 
Of  promise  shining  o'er  a  heavenly  clime ; 
And  thus  he  knew  of  life  its  mystic  truth, — 
Hope,  with  perpetual  youth, 
And  that  wherein  all  doubt  and  trouble  cease, 
Sweet  child  of  patience,  peace. 


And  now  came  Death,  a  gentle,  welcome  guest, 
And  touched  his  hand  and  led  him  into  rest. 
Time  paid  its  tribute  to  eternity— 
A  great  soul,  ripe  for  the  immortal  day — 
And  earth  embraced  his  ashes.     Cold  their  bed, 
For  now  the  aged  year  was  also  dead. 
The  winter  wind  shrieked  loud,  with  hoarse  alarms, 
The  keen  stars  shivered  in  the  midnight  air, 

95 


And  the  bare  trees  stretched  forth  their  stiffened  arms 
To  the  wan  sky,  in  pale  and  speechless  prayer. 


VI 


Speak  softly  here,  and  softly  tread, 
For  all  the  place  is  holy  ground, 

Where  Nature's  love  enshrines  her  dead, 
And  earth  with  blessing  folds  them  round. 

He  rests  at  last :  the  world  far-off 

May  riot  in  her  mad  excess, 
But  now  her  plaudit  and  her  scoff 

To  him  alike  are  nothingness. 

He  learned  in  depths  where  virtue  fell, 
The  heights  to  which  the  soul  may  rise : 

He  sounded  the  abyss  of  hell, 
He  scaled  the  walls  of  paradise. 

What  else  ?     Till  every  wandering  star 
In  heaven's  blue  vault  be  cold  and  dim, 

Our  faithful  spirits,  following  far, 
Walk  in  the  light  that  falls  from  him. 


96 


COMRADES 


AT  morning,  when  the  march  began, 

And  Hope's  strong  eagle  waved  her  wing, 

Through  banks  of  flowers  the  pathway  ran, 
Beneath  the  silver  skies  of  spring. 

We  heard  the  mountain  torrents  call, 
Far  up  among  the  peaks  of  snow ; 

Our  happy  laughter  rang  through  all 
The  peaceful  valleys  spread  below. 

Our  hearts  were  glad,  our  faces  gay, 
We  trod  the  slopes  with  careless  glee, 

And  through  the  hill-gaps,  far  away, 
Hailed  the  blue  splendor  of  the  sea. 

We  knew  no  peril,  felt  no  fear, 

Nor  thought  how  swift  the  moments  pass 
The  sighing  pines  we  did  not  hear, 

Nor  our  own  footsteps  on  the  grass. 

But  day  wears  on,  and  night  is  near, 
Gray  banners  mingle  with  the  gold, 

Our  ranks  are  thin,  our  faces  drear, 
The  sky  is  dark,  the  wind  is  cold ; 
97 


We  hear  the  moaning  of  the  waves 
Of  that  great  sea  to  which  we  tend ; 

Our  thoughts  are  in  the  wayside  graves, 
And  on  the  solemn  journey's  end. 

No  more  in  vain  the  pine-trees  sigh, 
Full  well  their  mournful  note  is  known ; 

No  footsteps  pass  unheeded  by, 
No  more  unheeded  fall  our  own. 

No  more  we  hear  the  joyous  cries 
Reechoed  back  from  vale  and  hill ; 

The  light  has  faded  from  our  eyes, 
The  music  of  our  youth  is  still. 


II 


Not  all  unlearn'd  in  sorrow's  lore, 

My  spirit,  pensive,  dwells  apart, 
And  hears  and  heeds  for  evermore 

The  dead  leaves  rustling  in  the  heart. 

Yet  kindly  fortune  gives  me  grace, 

Through  good  and  ill,  through  toil  and  pain, 
To  hold  in  ever  fond  embrace 

The  cherished  comrades  that  remain ! 

He,  dearly  prized,  whose  gracious  fame 
Is  goodness  bright,  beyond  eclipse ; 

He,  tried  and  true,  whose  honored  name 
Is  in  your  hearts  as  on  your  lips  ; — 
98 


He  shall  not,  in  this  royal  hour, 

Lack  words  of  mine,  my  faith  to  prove ; 

And,  though  they  be  not  words  of  power, 
They  shall  be  words  of  constant  love. 

His  the  light-hearted,  cheery  mirth, 

The  snow-white  bloom  of  blameless  days, 

Wisdom  and  grace  and  manly  worth, 
An  honest  mind  and  simple  ways. 

His  the  pure  thought,  the  spirit  sweet, 
The  wild-wood  charm  of  graceful  art, 

The  sadness  and  the  joy  that  meet 
In  Nature's  own  benignant  heart. 

Him  fortune  never  taught  to  fawn ; 

Want  never  sued  to  him  in  vain  : 
The  word  is  spoken  and  is  gone, 

The  gentle  thought  and  act  remain. 

On  wings  of  deeds  the  soul  must  mount ! 

When  we  are  summoned  from  afar, 
Ourselves,  and  not  our  words,  will  count, — 

Not  what  we  said,  but  what  we  are ! 

Ah,  be  it  mine,  or  soon  or  late, 

In  that  great  day,  in  that  bright  land, 

With  him,  as  now,  to  take  my  fate, 

Heart  answering  heart,  hand  clasped  in  hand ! 


99 


POE 

COLD  is  the  paean  honor  sings, 

And  chill  is  glory's  icy  breath, 
And  pale  the  garland  memory  brings, 

To  grace  the  iron  doors  of  death. 

Fame's  echoing  thunder,  long  and  loud, 
The  pomp  of  pride  that  decks  the  pall, 

The  plaudit  of  the  vacant  crowd, — 
One  word  of  love  is  worth  them  all ! 

With  dew  of  grief  our  eyes  are  dim : 
Ah,  let  the  tear  of  sorrow  start ; 

And  honor,  in  ourselves  and  him, 
The  great  and  tender  human  heart ! 

Through  many  a  night  of  want  and  woe 
His  frenzied  spirit  wandered  wild, 

Till  kind  disaster  laid  him  low, 

And  love  reclaimed  its  wayward  child. 

Through  many  a  year  his  fame  has  grown, — 
Like  midnight,  vast ;  like  starlight,  sweet ; 

Till  now  his  genius  fills  a  throne, 

And  homage  makes  his  realm  complete. 
100 


One  meed  of  justice,  long  delayed, 
One  garland  yet  his  sorrows  crave ! 

Ah,  take,  thou  melancholy  shade, 
The  love  that  sanctifies  the  grave. 

And  may  thy  spirit,  hovering  nigh, 

Pierce  the  dense  cloud  of  darkness  through, 

And  know,  with  fame  that  cannot  die, 
Thou  hast  the  world's  compassion,  too ! 


NATURE 

THE  bard  of  Rydal  Mount  spake  well — 

But  Nature  for  herself  speaks,  too ; 
Nor  any  secret  had  to  tell 

To  him,  that's  hid  from  me  and  you. 
For  us  she  gems  the  sapphire  sky ; 

For  us  her  mountains  cleave  the  air ; 
And  he  that  sees  with  Nature's  eye 

Sees  everything  that's  good  and  fair. 


101 


THE   VOICE    OF   THE    SILENCE 

BRIGHT  on  the  sparkling  sod  to-day 

The  youthful  summer  gleams  ; 
The  roses  in  the  south  wind  play, 

The  slumberous  woodland  dreams : 
In  golden  light,  'neath  clouds  of  fleece, 

'Mid  bird-songs  wild  and  free, 
The  blue  Potomac  flows  in  peace, 

Down  to  the  peaceful  sea. 

No  echo  from  the  stormy  past 

Alarms  the  placid  vale, — 
Nor  cannon  roar,  nor  trumpet  blast, 

Nor  shattered  soldier's  wail : 
There's  nothing  left  to  mark  the  strife, 

The  triumph  or  the  pain, 
Where  Nature  to  her  general  life 

Takes  back  our  lives  again. 

Yet,  in  your  vision,  evermore, 

Beneath  affrighted  skies, 
With  crash  of  sound,  with  reek  of  gore, 

The  martial  pageants  rise : 
Audacious  banners  rend  the  air, 

Dark  steeds  of  battle  neigh, 
And  frantic  through  the  sulphurous  glare 

Raves  on  the  crimson  fray ! 
102 


Not  time,  nor  chance,  nor  change  can  drown 

Your  memories  proud  and  high, 
Nor  pluck  your  star  of  conquest  down 

From  glory's  deathless  sky  ! 
For  evermore  your  fame  shall  bide — 

Your  valor  tried  and  true ; 
And  that  which  makes  your  country's  pride 

May  well  be  pride  to  you  ! 

Forever  in  the  soldier's  thought 

The  soldier's  life  returns, — 
Or  where  the  trampled  fields  are  fought, 

Or  where  the  camp-fire  burns. 
For  him  the  pomp  of  morning  brings 

A  thrill  none  else  can  know ; 
For  him  night  waves  her  sable  wings 

O'er  many  a  nameless  woe. 

How  often,  face  to  face  with  death, 

In  stern  suspense  he  stood, 
While  Nature  seem'd  to  hold  its  breath 

Within  the  ambushed  wood  ! 
Again  he  sees  the  silent  hills, 

With  danger's  menace  grim ; 
And,  darkly,  all  the  shuddering  rills 

Run  red  with  blood  for  him. 

For  him  the  cruel  sun  of  noon 

Glares  on  a  bristling  plain; 
For  him  the  cold,  disdainful  moon 

Lights  meadows  rough  with  slain  : 


There's  death  in  every  sight  he  sees, 

In  every  sound  he  hears ; 
And  sunset  hush  and  evening  breeze 

Are  sad  with  prisoned  tears. 

Again,  worn  out  in  fevered  march, 

He  sinks  beside  the  track ; 
Again,  beneath  night's  lonely  arch, 

His  dreams  of  home  come  back ; 
In  morning  wind  the  roses  shake 

Around  his  cottage  door, 
And  little  feet  of  children  make 

Their  music  on  the  floor. 

The  tones  that  nevermore  on  earth 

Can  bid  his  pulses  leap 
Ring  out  again,  in  careless  mirth, 

Across  the  vales  of  sleep  ; 
And  where,  in  horrent  splendor,  roll 

The  waves  of  vict'ry's  tide, 
The  chosen  comrades  of  his  soul 

Are  glorious  at  his  side ! 

Forget !  the  arm  may  lose  its  might, 

The  tired  heart  beat  low, 
The  sun  from  heaven  blot  out  his  light, 

The  west  wind  cease  to  blow ; 
But,  while  one  spark  of  life  is  warm. 

Within  this  mould  of  clay, 
His  soul  will  revel  in  the  storm 

Of  that  tremendous  day ! 
104 


On  mountain  slope,  in  lonely  glen, 

By  Fate's  divine  command, 
The  blood  of  those  devoted  men 

Has  sanctified  the  land  ! 
The  funeral  moss — but  not  in  grief — 

Waves  o'er  their  hallowed  rest ; 
For  not  in  grief  the  laurel  leaf 

Drops  on  the  hero's  breast ! 

Tears  for  the  slave,  when  Heaven's  gift 

Of  all  that  man  can  be 
Wastes,  like  the  shattered  spars  that  drift 

Upon  the  unknown  sea  ! 
Tears  when  the  craven  sinks  at  last, — 

No  deed  of  valor  done ; 
But  no  tears  for  the  soul  that  past 

When  honor's  fight  was  won  ! 

He  takes  the  hand  of  heavenly  fate, 

Who  lives  and  dies  for  truth ! 
For  him  the  holy  angels  wait, 

In  realms  of  endless  youth ! 
The  grass  upon  his  grave  is  green 

With  everlasting  bloom ; 
And  love  and  blessing  make  the  sheen 

Of  glory  round  his  tomb  ! 

Mourn  not  for  them,  beloved  and  gone, 

The  cause  they  died  to  save 
Rears  its  eternal  corner-stone 

Upon  the  martyr's  grave, 
105 


Where,  safe  from  every  ill,  they  pass 

To  slumber  sweet  and  low, 
'Neath  requiems  of  the  murmuring  grass 

And  dirges  of  the  snow. 

That  sunset  wafts  its  holiest  kiss 

Through  evening's  gathering  shades  ; 
That  beauty  breaks  the  heart  with  bliss 

The  hour  before  it  fades ; 
That  music  seems  to  merge  with  heaven 

Just  when  its  echo  dies, 
Is  Nature's  sacred  promise  given 

Of  life  beyond  the  skies ! 

Mourn  not !  in  life  and  death  they  teach 

This  thought,  this  truth,  sublime : 
There's  no  man  free,  except  he  reach 

Beyond  the  verge  of  time ! 
So,  beckoning  up  the  starry  slope, 

They  bid  our  souls  to  live, 
And,  flooding  all  the  world  with  hope, 

Have  taught  us  to  forgive. 

No  soldier  spurns  a  fallen  foe ! 

No  hate  of  humankind 
Can  darken  down  the  generous  glow 

That  fires  the  patriot  mind ! 
But  love  shall  make  the  vanquished  strong, 

And  justice  lift  the  ban, 
Where  right  no  more  can  bend  to  wrong, 

Nor  man  be  slave  to  man ! 
106 


So  from  their  silent  graves  they  speak ; 

So  speaks  that  silent  scene, — 
Where  now  the  violet  blossoms  meek, 

And  all  the  fields  are  green. 
There  wood  and  stream  and  flower  and  bird 

A  pure  content  declare ; 
And  where  the  voice  of  war  was  heard 

Is  heard  the  voice  of  prayer : 

Once  more  in  brother-like  accord 

Our  alien'd  hearts  unite ; 
And  clasp,  across  the  broken  sword, 

The  hands  that  used  to  smite ! 
And  since  beside  Potomac's  wave 

There's  nothing  left  but  peace, 
Be  filled  at  last  the  open  grave, 

And  let  the  sorrow  cease ! 

Sweet  from  the  pitying  northern  pines 

Their  loving  whisper  flows ; 
And  sweetly,  where  the  orange  shines, 

The  palm-tree  woos  the  rose : 
Ah,  let  that  tender  music  run 

O'er  all  the  years  to  be ; 
And  Thy  great  blessing  make  us  one, — 

And  make  us  one  with  Thee ! 


107 


AFTER  ALL 

THE  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard, 
The  work  of  the  reaper  is  done, 

And  the  golden  woodlands  redden 
In  the  blood  of  the  dying  sun. 

At  the  cottage  door  the  grandsire 

Sits,  pale,  in  his  easy-chair, 
While  a  gentle  wind  of  twilight 

Plays  with  his  silver  hair. 

A  woman  is  kneeling  beside  him ; 

A  fair  young  head  is  prest, 
In  the  first  wild  passion  of  sorrow, 

Against  his  aged  breast. 

And  far  from  over  the  distance 

The  faltering  echoes  come, 
Of  the  flying  blast  of  trumpet 

And  the  rattling  roll  of  drum. 

Then  the  grandsire  speaks,  in  a  whisper ,- 

'  The  end  no  man  can  see ; 
But  we  give  him  to  his  country, 

And  we  give  our  prayers  to  Thee.'.  .  . 
108 


The  violets  star  the  meadows, 

The  rose-buds  fringe  the  door, 
And  over  the  grassy  orchard 

The  pink-white  blossoms  pour 

But  the  grandsire's  chair  is  empty, 

The  cottage  is  dark  and  still, 
There's  a  nameless  grave  in  the  battle-field, 

And  a  new  one  under  the  hill. 

And  a  pallid,  tearless  woman 

By  the  cold  hearth  sits,  alone ; 
And  the  old  clock  in  the  corner 

Ticks  on  with  a  steady  drone. 


109 


NO    MORE 

THEY  walked  beside  the  summer  sea 

And  watched  the  slowly  dying  sun ; 
And  'Oh,'  she  said,  'come  back  to  me, 

My  love,  my  own,  my  only  one !' 
But,  while  he  kissed  her  fears  away, 

The  gentle  waters  kissed  the  shore, 
And,  sadly  whispering,  seemed  to  say, 

'He'll  come  no  more !  he'll  come  no  more !' 

Alone  beside  the  autumn  sea 

She  watched  the  sombre  death  of  day ; 
And  'Oh,'  she  said,  'remember  me, 

And  love  me,  darling,  far  away ! ' 
A  cold  wind  swept  the  wat'ry  gloom, 

And,  darkly  whispering  on  the  shore, 
Sighed  out  the  secret  of  his  doom, — 

'He'll  come  no  more !  he'll  come  no  more !' 

In  peace  beside  the  winter  sea 

A  white  grave  glimmers  to  the  moon ; 
And  waves  are  fresh,  and  clouds  are  free, 

And  shrill  winds  pipe  a  careless  tune. 
One  sleeps  beneath  the  dark  blue  wave, 

And  one  upon  the  lonely  shore ; 
But,  joined  in  love,  beyond  the  grave, 

They  part  no  more !  they  part  no  more ! 


110 


EDELWEISS 

WHERE,  pure  and  pale,  the  starlight  streams 

Far  down  the  Alpine  slope, 
Still  through  eternal  winter  gleams 

The  stainless  flower  of  hope ! 
Undimmed  by  cloud,  undrenched  by  tears, 

So  may  thy  laurel  last, — 
While  shines  o'er  all  thy  future  years 

The  rainbow  of  the  past ! 

Far,  far  from  thee  the  mournful  hour 

That  brings  the  final  call, 
And  o'er  thy  scenes  of  grace  and  power 

Fate  lets  the  curtain  fall ! 
And  oh,  when  sounds  that  knell  of  worth, 

To  thy  pure  soul  be  given 
A  painless  exit  from  the  earth, 

And  entrance  into  heaven  ! 


ill 


AT  SHAKESPEARE'S   GRAVE 

No  eyes  can  see  man's  destiny  completed 

Save  His,  who  made  and  knows  th'  eternal  plan : 

As  shapes  of  clouds  in  mountains  are  repeated, 
So  thoughts  of  God  accomplished  are  in  man 

Here  the  divinest  of  all  thoughts  descended ; 

Here  the  sweet  heavens  their  sweetest  boon  let  fall ; 
Upon  this  hallowed  ground  begun  and  ended 

The  life  that  knew,  and  felt,  and  uttered  all. 

There  is  not  anything  of  human  trial 
That  ever  love  deplored  or  sorrow  knew, 

No  glad  fulfilment  and  no  sad  denial, 

Beyond  the  pictured  truth  that  Shakespeare  drew. 

All  things  are  said  and  done,  and  though  forever 
The  streams  dash  onward  and  the  great  winds  blow, 

There  comes  no  new  thing  in  the  world,  and  never 
A  voice  like  his,  that  seems  to  make  it  so. 

Take,  then,  thy  fate,  or  opulent  or  sordid, 
Take  it  and  bear  it  and  esteem  it  blest ; 

For  of  all  crowns  that  ever  were  awarded, 
The  crown  of  simple  patience  is  the  best. 


112 


A   PLEDGE 

FROM  the  lily  of  love  that  uncloses 

In  the  glow  of  a  festival  kiss, 
On  the  wind  that  is  heavy  with  roses, 

And  shrill  with  the  bugles  of  bliss, 
Let  it  float  o'er  the  mystical  ocean 

That  breaks  on  the  kingdom  of  night — 
Our  oath  of  eternal  devotion 

To  the  heroes  who  died  for  the  right ! 

They  loved,  as  we  love — yet  they  parted 

From  all  that  man's  spirit  can  prize ; 
Left  woman  and  child  broken-hearted, 

Staring  up  to  the  pitiless  skies ; 
Left  the  tumult  of  youth,  the  rich  guerdon 

Hope  promised  to  conquer  from  fate ; 
Gave  all  for  the  agonized  burden 

Of  death,  for  the  Flag  and  the  State. 

Where  they  roam  on  the  slopes  of  the  mountain 

That  only  by  angels  is  trod  ; 
Where  they  muse  by  the  crystalline  fountain, — 

The  mystical,  effluent  God, 
Are  they  lost  in  unspeakable  splendor? 

Do  they  never  look  back  and  regret  ? — 
Ah,  the  valiant  are  constant  and  tender, 

And  honor  can  never  forget ! 
113 


Divine  in  their  pitying  sadness 

They  grieve  for  their  comrades  of  earth ; 
They  will  hear  us,  and  start  into  gladness, 

And  echo  the  notes  of  our  mirth ; 
They  will  lift  their  white  hands  with  a  blessing 

We  shall  know  by  the  tear  that  it  brings — 
The  rapture  of  friendship  confessing, 

With  harps  and  the  waving  of  wings. 

In  the  grim  and  relentless  upheaval 

That  blesses  the  world  through  a  curse, — 
Still  bringing  the  good  out  of  evil, 

The  garland  of  peace  on  the  hearse ! — 
They  were  shattered,  consumed,  and  forsaken, 

Like  the  shadows  that  fly  from  the  dawn  : 
We  may  never  know  why  they  were  taken, 

But  we  always  shall  feel  they  are  gone. 

If  the  wind  that  sighs  over  our  prairies 

No  longer  is  solemn  with  knells, 
But  lovely  with  flowers  and  fairies, 

And  sweet  with  the  calm  Sabbath  bells ; 
If  virtue,  in  cottage  and  palace, 

Leads  love  to  the  bridal  of  pride, 
'Tis  because  out  of  war's  bitter  chalice 

Our  heroes  drank  deeply — and  died. 

Ah,  grander  in  doom-stricken  glory 
Than  the  greatest  that  linger  behind, 

They  shall  live  in  perpetual  story, 

Who  saved  the  best  hope  of  mankind ! 
114 


For  their  cause  was  the  cause  of  the  races 
That  languished  in  slavery's  night ; 

And  the  death  that  was  pale  on  their  faces 
Has  filled  the  whole  world  with  its  light ! 

To  the  clouds  and  the  mountains  we  breathe  it ; 

To  the  freedom  of  planet  and  star ; 
Let  the  tempests  of  ocean  enwreathe  it ; 

Let  the  winds  of  the  night  bear  it  far, — 
Our  oath,  that,  till  manhood  shall  perish, 

And  honor  and  virtue  are  sped, 
We  are  true  to  the  cause  that  they  cherish, 

And  eternally  true  to  the  dead ! 


115 


THE     PASSING     BELL 

SWEET  bell  of  Stratford,  tolling  slow, 
In  summer  gloaming's  golden  glow, 
I  hear  and  feel  thy  voice  divine, 
And  all  my  soul  responds  to  thine. 

As  now  I  hear  thee,  even  so 
My  Shakespeare  heard  thee,  long  ago, 
When  lone  by  Avon's  pensive  stream 
He  wandered  in  his  haunted  dream : 

Heard  thee, — and  far  his  fancy  sped 
Through  spectral  caverns  of  the  dead, 
And  strove,  and  strove  in  vain,  to  pierce 
The  secret  of  the  universe. 

As  now  thou  mournest  didst  thou  mourn 
On  that  sad  day  when  he  was  borne 
Through  the  green  aisle  of  honied  limes, 
To  rest  beneath  the  chamber'd  chimes. 

He  heard  thee  not,  nor  cared  to  hear ! 
Another  voice  was  in  his  ear, 
And,  freed  from  all  the  bonds  of  men, 
He  knew  the  awful  secret  then. 

Sweet  bell  of  Stratford,  toll,  and  be 
A  sacred  promise  unto  me 
Of  that  great  hour  when  I  shall  know 
The  path  whereon  his  footsteps  go. 
116 


CONSTANCE 

WITH  diamond  dew  the  grass  was  wet, — 
'Twas  in  the  spring  and  gentlest  weather, — 

And  all  the  birds  of  morning  met, 
And  carolled  in  her  heart  together. 

The  wind  blew  softly  o'er  the  land, 
And  softly  kissed  the  joyous  ocean : 

He  walked  beside  her  on  the  sand, 
And  won  a  faithful  heart's  devotion. 

The  thistledown  was  in  the  breeze, 

With  birds  of  passage  homeward  flying : 

His  fortune  lured  him  o'er  the  seas, 
And  on  the  shore  he  left  her,  sighing. 

She  saw  his  barque  glide  down  the  bay, 

Through  tears  and  fears  she  could  not  banish ; 

She  saw  his  white  sails  melt  away — 

She  saw  them  fade,  she  saw  them  vanish. 

And  'Go,'  she  said,  'for  winds  are  fan-, 
And  love  and  blessing  round  you  hover ; 

When  you  sail  backward  through  the  air, 
Then  I  will  trust  the  word  of  lover.' 
117 


Still  ebbed,  still  flowed,  the  tide  of  years, 

Now  chilled  with  snows,  now  bright  with  roses, 

And  many  smiles  were  turned  to  tears, 
And  sombre  morns  to  radiant  closes. 

And  many  ships  came  sailing  by, 

With  many  a  golden  promise  freighted ; 

But  nevermore,  from  sea  or  sky, 

Came  love,  to  bless  her  heart  that  waited. 

Yet  on,  by  tender  patience  led, 

Her  sacred  footsteps  walked,  unbidden, 

Wherever  sorrow  bows  its  head, 

Or  want,  and  care,  and  shame  are  hidden. 

And  they  who  saw  her  snow-white  hair, 
And  dark,  sad  eyes,  so  deep  with  feeling, 

Breathed  all  at  once  the  chancel  air 
And  seemed  to  hear  the  organ  pealing. 

Till  once,  at  shut  of  autumn  day, 

In  marble  chill  she  paused  and  harkened, 

With  startled  gaze  where  far  away 

The  wastes  of  sky  and  ocean  darkened. 

There,  for  a  moment,  faint  and  wan, 
High  up  in  air  and  landward  striving, 

Stern-fore  a  spectral  barque  came  on, 
Across  the  purple  sunset  driving. 
118 


Then  something  out  of  night  she  knew, 

Some  whisper  heard,  from  heaven  descended, 

And,  peacefully  as  falls  the  dew, 
Her  long  and  lonely  vigil  ended. 

The  violet  and  the  bramble-rose 

Make  glad  the  grass  that  dreams  above  her ; 
And,  freed  from  time  and  all  its  woes, 

She  trusts  again  the  word  of  lover. 


A    PICTURE 

THE  lonesome  road  winds  down  the  mountain  side ; 

The  dark  pines,  dreaming,  sigh,  on  either  hand ; 
Through  the  dim  vale  below  thin  streamlets  glide, 

Where  twinkling  cots  in  peaceful  hamlets  stand  : 
The  smile  of  sunset  warms  this  lovely  land, 

The  fragrant  breeze  of  evening  whispers  low, 
And,  fugitive,  in  lurid  masses  grand, 

The  purple  sunset  banners  flash  and  glow, 

As  if  in  some  vast  rout  and  monarch's  overthrow. 


119 


HOLMES 

IF  that  glad  song  had  ebbed  away, 

Which,  rippling  on  through  smiles  and  tears, 
Has  bathed  with  showers  of  diamond  spray 

The  rosy  fields  of  seventy  years, — 
If  that  sweet  voice  were  hushed  to-day, 
What  should  we  say? 

At  first  we  thought  him  but  a  jest, 
A  ray  of  laughter,  quick  to  fade ; 

We  did  not  dream  how  richly  blest 
In  his  pure  life  our  lives  were  made, 

Till  soon  the  aureole  shone,  confest, 
Upon  his  crest. 

When  violets  fade  the  roses  blow ; 

When  laughter  dies  the  passions  wake : 
His  royal  song  that  slept  below, 

Like  Arthur's  sword  beneath  the  lake, 
Long  since  has  flashed  its  fiery  glow 
O'er  all  we  know. 

That  song  has  poured  its  sacred  light 
On  crimson  flags  in  freedom's  van, 
And  blessed  their  serried  ranks  who  fight 
Life's  battle  here  for  truth  and  man, — 
An  oriflamme,  to  cheer  the  right, 
Through  darkest  night ! 
120 


That  song  has  flecked  with  rosy  gold 
The  sails  that  fade  o'er  fancy's  sea ; 

Relumed  the  storied  days  of  old ; 
Presaged  the  glorious  life  to  be ; 

And  many  a  sorrowing  heart  consoled 
In  grief  untold. 

When,  shattered  on  the  loftiest  steep 
The  statesman's  glory  ever  found, 

That  heart,  so  like  the  boundless  deep, 
Broke,  in  the  deep  no  heart  can  bound, 

How  did  his  dirge  of  sorrow  weep 
O'er  WEBSTER'S  sleep ! 

How  sweetly  did  his  spirit  pour 

The  strains  that  make  the  tear-drops  start, 
When,  on  the  bleak  New  England  shore, 

With  Tara's  harp  and  Erin's  heart, 
He  thrilled  us  to  the  bosom's  core 
With  thoughts  of  MOORE  ! 

The  shamrock,  green  on  Liffey's  side, 
The  lichen  'neath  New  England  snows, 

White  daisies  of  the  fields  of  Clyde, 
Twined  ardent  round  old  Albion's  rose, 

Bloom  in  his  verse,  as  blooms  the  bride, 
With  love  and  pride. 

The  silken  tress,  the  mantling  wine, 
Red  roses,  summer's  whispering  leaves, 
121 


The  lips  that  kiss,  the  hands  that  twine, 

The  heart  that  loves,  the  heart  that  grieves,- 
They  all  have  found  a  deathless  shrine 
In  his  rich  line  ! 

Ah  well,  that  voice  can  charm  us  yet, 
And  still  that  shining  tide  of  song, 

Beneath  a  sun  not  soon  to  set, 
In  golden  music  flows  along. 

With  dew  of  joy  our  eyes  are  wet — 
Not  of  regret. 

For  still,  as  comes  the  festal  day, 

In  many  a  temple,  far  and  near, 
The  words  that  all  have  longed  to  say, 

The  words  that  all  are  proud  to  hear, 
Fall  from  his  lips,  with  conquering  sway, 
Or  grave  or  gay. 

No  moment  this  for  passion's  heat, 
Nor  mine  the  voice  to  give  it  scope, 

When  love,  and  fame,  and  beauty  meet 
To  crown  their  Memory  and  their  Hope ! 

I  cast  white  lilies,  cool  and  sweet, 
Here  at  his  feet. 

True  bard,  true  soul,  true  man,  true  friend ! 

Ah,  gently  on  that  reverend  head 
Ye  snows  of  wintry  age  descend, 

Ye  shades  of  mortal  night  be  shed ! 
Peace  guide  and  guard  him  to  the  end, 
And  love  defend ! 
122 


A    LOTOS    FLOWER 

THOUGH  still  the  heart  of  twilight  grieves, 

As  evening  sun  sinks  low, 
And  sad  winds  stir  the  fallen  leaves 

With  airs  of  long  ago, 
No  shadow  grim  can  ever  dim 

The  glory  of  this  hour, 
When  thus  the  blazing  hearth  we  trim 

Beneath  the  Lotos  flower. 

Old  time  may  quench  illusion's  light, 

And  dreams  of  youth  depart, 
But  neither  time  nor  truth  can  blight 

The  sunshine  of  the  heart, — 
That  gentle  light  of  pure  content, 

Our  sober  manhood's  dower, 
Sweet  peace  and  calm  affection,  blent 

Beneath  the  Lotos  flower. 

In  that  dusk  land  of  mystic  dream 

Where  dark  Osiris  sprung, 
It  bloomed  beside  his  sacred  stream, 

While  yet  the  world  was  young ; 
And  every  secret  Nature  told, 

Of  golden  wisdom's  power, 
Is  nestled  still  in  every  fold 

Within  the  Lotos  flower. 
123 


Here  let  our  weary  burdens  fall, 

And  passion's  longing  cease : 
The  gods  of  life  have  given  all, 

When  once  they  give  us  peace ! 
Black  care  shall  vanish  in  a  laugh, 

Forgot  be  beauty's  bower, 
When  now  the  loving  cup  we  quaff 

Beneath  the  Lotos  flower ! 


UP   OR   DOWN? 

LOOK  not  upon  the  wine  when  it 

Is  red  within  the  cup, 
But  summon  all  your  native  grit 

And  boldly  drink  it  up: 
Or  if  on  this  constructive  act 

The  sage  grammarian  frown, 
Hold  fast  to  the  substantial  fact 

And  blithely  drink  it  down. 
For  naught  to  him  can  signify 

What  Lindley  Murray  thinks  it, 
Who,  having  wine,  and  being  dry, 

Incontinently  drinks  it. 


124 


THE    MERRY    MONARCH 

IT  comes  into  my  mind,  in  a  genial  mood, 

When  the  worlds  of  my  being,  without  and  within, 
Are  pensively  happy,  in  all  that  is  good, — 

Unclouded  by  care  and  untempted  by  sin, — 
If  the  gods  would  but  grant  me  my  dearest  desire, 

As  sometimes  I  think  they  are  willing  to  do, 
That  I  shouldn't  sit  here,  looking  into  the  fire, 

And  dreaming,  my  love,  as  I'm  dreaming  of  you. 

Nor  should  I  be  thinking,  as  sometimes  I  am, — 

If  the  gods  had  but  made  me  the  thing  I  would  be, — 
That  a  station  of  rank,  in  a  world  full  of  sham, 

Were  a  pleasant  and  suitable  station  for  me. 
Nor  would  ever  a  fancy  drift  into  my  brain 

For  the  laurel  that  bards  are  so  wishful  to  wear, — 
That  dubious  guerdon  for  labor  and  pain, 

That  sorry  exchange  for  the  natural  hair. 

No !  I  never  should  care,  if  I  had  my  own  way, 

For  the  storm  or  the  sunshine,  the  yes  or  the  no ; 
But,  merrily  careless  and  perfectly  gay, 

I  could  let  the  world  go  as  it  wanted  to  go : 
I  should  ask  neither  riches,  nor  station,  nor  power ; 

They  are  chances,  they  happen,  and  there  is  an  end  ; 
But  a  heart  that  beats  happily  every  hour 

Is  a  god's  richest  gift,  is  a  man's  truest  friend. 
125 


And  that's  what  I'd  have !    For  that  blessing  I  pray ! 

A  spirit  so  gentle  and  cheery  and  bright, 
It  would  gladden  with  sunshine  the  sunniest  day, 

And  with  magical  splendor  illumine  the  night. 
I  could  envy  no  potentate  under  the  sun, 

However  sublime  might  that  potentate  be ! 
For  I'd  live,  the  illustrious  monarch  of  fun, 

And  the  rest  of  the  world  should  be  happy  with  me. 

I'd  be  gold  in  the  sunshine  and  silver  in  showers ; 

I'd  be  rainbows,  and  clouds  all  of  purple  and  pearl ; 
And  the  fairies  of  fun  should  laugh  out  of  the  flowers, 

And  the  jolly  old  earth  should  be  all  in  a  whirl ! 
The  brooks  should  trill  music,  the  leaves  dance  in  glee, 

And  old  ocean  should  bellow  with  surly  delight : 
O,  but  wouldn't  it  be  a  rare  pageant  to  see, 

If  the  gods  did  but  grant  me  my  kingdom  to-night ! 

And  I  think  it  will  come, — that  enthronement  of  mine, 

That  crown  with  the  opals  of  jollity  set ; 
And  the  joy  in  my  soul  will  be  almost  divine 

When  I  finally  teach  myself  how  to  forget ; 
Forget  every  trouble  in  which  I've  a  part, 

All  the  dreams  that  allure  and  the  hopes  that  betray  ; 
Contented  to  wait  with  a  right  merry  heart 

For  silence  and  night  and  the  end  of  the  play. 


126 


THE    SIGNAL    LIGHT 

THE  lonely  sailor,  when  the  night 

O'er  ocean's  glimmering  waste  descends, 

Sets  at  the  peak  his  signal  light, 

And  fondly  dreams  of  absent  friends. 

Starless  the  sky  above  him  broods, 
Pathless  the  waves  beneath  him  swell ; 

Through  peril's  spectral  solitudes 
That  beacon  flares,  and  all  is  well. 

So,  on  the  wandering  sea  of  years, 
When  now  the  evening  closes  round, 

I  show  the  signal  flame  that  cheers, 
And  scan  the  wide  horizon's  bound. 

The  night  is  dark,  the  winds  are  loud, 
The  black  waves  follow,  fast  and  far ; 

Yet  soon  may  flash,  through  mist  and  cloud, 
The  radiance  of  some  answering  star. 

Haply  across  the  shuddering  deep, 
One  moment  seen,  a  snowy  sail 

May  dart  with  one  impetuous  leap, 
And  pass  with  one  exultant  hail : 
127 


And  I  shall  dearly,  sweetly  know, 

Though  storm  be  fierce  and  ocean  drear, 

That  somewhere  still  the  roses  blow, 

And  hearts  are  true,  and  friends  are  near. 

Each  separate  on  the  eternal  main, 
We  seek  the  same  celestial  shore : 

Sometimes  we  part  to  meet  again, 
Sometimes  we  part  to  meet  no  more. 

Ah,  comrades,  prize  the  gracious  day 
When  sunshine  bathes  the  tranquil  tide, 

And,  careless  as  a  child  at  play, 

Our  ships  drift  onward,  side  by  side ! 

Too  oft,  with  cold  and  barren  will, 

And  stony  pride  of  iron  sway, 
We  bid   the  voice  of  love  be  still, 

And  thrust  the  cup  of  joy  away. 

No  comfort  haunts  the  yellow  leaf ! 

Wait  not  till,  broken,  old,  and  sere, 
The  sad  heart  pines,  in  hopeless  grief, 

For  one  sweet  voice  it  used  to  hear. 

Thought  has  its  throne,  arid  power  its  glow, 
And  wealth  will  bless,  and  beauty  please ; 

But  the  best  hours  that  life  can  know 

Are  rose-crowned  hours  of  mirth  and  ease. 
128 


Let  laughter  leap  from  every  lip ! 

To  music  turn  the  perfumed  air ! 
Ye  golden  pennons,  glance  and  dip ! 

Ye  crimson  banners,  flash  and  flare ! 

On  them  no  more  the  tempest  glooms 
Whose  freed  and  royal  spirits  know 

To  frolic  where  the  lilac  blooms, 
And  revel  where  the  roses  blow ! 

But,  lights  of  heaven  above  them  kiss, 
As  over  silver  seas  they  glide, — 

One  heart,  one  hope,  one  fate,  one  bliss, 
To  peace  and  silence,  side  by  side. 


LOVE    UNTOLD 

LOVE  never  dies,  that  harbors  in  a  jest ! 

Love  never  lives,  that  only  words  can  tell ! 
And  so  light  looks  and  smiles  are  ever  best, — 

Since  love  that  speaks  must  only  say  Farewell ! 


129 


AT    ARLINGTON 


IF  this  were  all,  if  lost  with  those  that  perished, — 
O'er  whom  these  winds  of  summer  softly  sigh, — 

Our  hopes  were  buried  with  the  hearts  we  cherished, 
And  life  were  nothing  but  to  toil  and  die ; 


What  sadder  scene  than  this  that  blooms  before  us, 
With  Nature's  garlands  decked,  could  earth  display  ? 

What  mockery  were  this  heaven  that's  bending  o'er  us, 
Glad  with  the  sunshine  of  the  glittering  May  I 


But  here,  where  late  with  naked  branches  striving, — 
Wet  with  the  icy  tears  of  wintry  grief, — 

Across  this  lonely  field  of  sorrow  driving 

The  angry  tempest  whirled  the  withered  leaf ; 


Now  swings  the  pendant  bloom,  now  opening  roses 
Woo  the  soft  zephyrs  with  their  balmy  breath ; 

Boughs  wave,  birds  sing,  and  silver  mist  reposes, 
In  bliss,  above  these  emerald  waves  of  death. 

130 


And  sure  the  Power,  that  out  of  desolation 
Can  thus  the  arid  wastes  of  earth  relume, 

Ne'er  meant  the  crown  of  all  its  vast  creation 
One  hour  of  woe,  and  then  the  eternal  tomb ! 

But,  were  this  all, — were  hope  with  being  ended, 
In  these  dark  cells  that  shrine  our  sacred  dead, 

Were  all  our  prayers  and  tears  in  vain  expended, 
Our  passion,  labor,  faith  forever  sped ; 

Who  would  not  yet, — all  selfish  impulse  spurning, — 
Live  for  mankind,  and  triumph  with  the  just ! 

Who,  from  the  field  of  honor  backward  turning, 
Would  trail  a  sullied  ensign  in  the  dust ! 

Though  fate  were  cruel,  human  will  undaunted, 
Supreme  o'er  torture,  regnant  over  time, 

Can  spurn  the  bitterest  foe  that  ever  vaunted 
This  mortal  frailty  which  were  Nature's  crime ! 

It  may  be, — every  generous  trust  forbidden, — 
That,  while  these  beauteous  orbs  of  ruin  roll, 

From  the  dark  sleep  in  which  the  dead  are  hidden 
A  flower  can  wake,  but  not  the  human  soul : 

Yet,  sweet  is  every  love  and  every  longing ; 

Yet  shines  the  dream  of  heaven  in  childhood's  eyes ; 
And  troops  of  angel  phantoms  still  come  thronging 

To  fancy's  vision,  in  the  twilight  skies : 

131 


Yet  stirs  the  heart  with  nameless,  vague  emotion, 
When  moonlight  sleeps  upon  the  summer  sea ; 

Yet  forest  depths  and  lonely  wastes  of  ocean 
And  mountain  voices  set  the  spirit  free : 

And,  borne  on  wings  of  glorious  endeavor, 
Man  yet  can  soar  above  his  baser  clay, — 

Throned  in  high  deeds,  forever  and  forever, 
That  cannot  die,  and  will  not  pass  away ! 

II 

High  were  their  deeds,  o'er  whom  our  hearts  are 
weeping ! 

Safe  bides  their  fame,  in  all  men's  love  and  praise 
Hallowed  the  mould  in  which  their  dust  is  sleeping, 

And  sweet  the  memory  that  has  crowned  their  days ! 

Ah,  once  for  them  young  Hope  unveiled  her  splendor ! 

Ah,  once  for  them  time  ran  in  golden  sands ! 
They  knew  affection's  accents,  soft  and  tender, 

They  felt  the  touch  of  loving  lips  and  hands. 

They  saw  the  awful  face  of  sovereign  beauty ; 

White  arms  of  proud  ambition  lured  them  on ; 
But  in  their  hearts  breathed  low  the  voice  of  duty, — 

They  heard  it,  and  they  answered:  they  are  gone. 

The  midnight  wind  was  cold  upon  their  faces, — 

Pale  in  the  silence  of  the  crimson  sod ; 
But  who  shall  paint  through  what  resplendent  spaces 

Their  souls  sprang  upward  to  the  light  of  God  ! 

132 


No  more,  for  them,  in  summer  twilight's  glimmer, 
Shall  distant  music  smite  the  chords  of  pain : 

No  more,  as  evening  shades  grow  slowly  dimmer, 
Shall  wandering  fragrance  pierce  the  tortured  brain. 

No  more  of  lingering  doubt,  nor  stern  denial, 
Nor  baffled  toil,  nor  slow,  embittering  strife, — 

But  now,  at  once,  the  crown  of  earthly  trial, 
The  long,  long  summer  of  eternal  Me ! 

Calm-fronted,  staunch,  expectant,  and  unshaken, 
Who  dares  the  worst  that  any  fate  can  bring, — 

For  him,  by  iron  purpose  ne'er  forsaken, 

The  grave  no  victory  has,  and  death  no  sting ; 

We  can  but  serve :  some,  by  the  instant  giving 
Of  all  that  hand  could  do  or  heart  could  prize ! 

Some,  by  a  meek,  laborious,  patient  living, 
A  daily  toil,  an  hourly  sacrifice. 

We  falter  on,  now  hoping,  now  despairing, 
And  hour  by  hour  drag  out  life's  little  span: 

They  passed,  in  one  tremendous  deed  of  daring, — 
They  lived  for  honor,  and  they  died  for  man  ! 

Pile  thick  the  amaranth  and  the  myrtle  o'er  them, — 
For  whom  our  laurell'd  banners  flash  and  flow, — 

Roses  that  love,  and  pansies  that  deplore  them, 
And  lilies,  weeping  from  their  hearts  of  snow. 

133 


Breathe  low,  ye  murmuring  pines,  ye  whispering  grasses  ! 

Ye  dews  of  summer  night  fall  softly  here ! 
Be  sorrow's  sigh  in  every  breeze  that  passes, 

And  every  rain-drop  be  a  mourner's  tear ! 

And  O,  ye  stars,  ye  holy  lights  that  cumber 
The  deep  of  heaven,  pour  benedictions  down ! 

Shed  your  sweet  incense  on  this  sacred  slumber — 
Bright  as  our  love,  and  pure  as  their  renown ! 

Breathe  our  farewell !  ah,  very  gently  breathe  it, — 

Like  ocean's  murmur  in  the  coral  shell, 
And  tender  as  the  sea-flowers  that  enwreathe  it, — 

For  ever  and  for  evermore,  Farewell ! 


134 


AT    ANCHOR 

WHILE  pale  with  rage  the  wild  surf  springs 

Athwart  the  harbor  bar, 
The  safe  ships  fold  their  snowy  wings 

Beneath  the  evening  star  : 
In  this  calm  haven,  rocked  to  sleep, 

All  night  they  swing  and  sway, 
Till  mantles  o'er  the  morning  deep 

The  golden  blush  of  day. 

Here,  safe  from  every  storm  of  fate, 

From  worldly  strife  and  scorn, 
Thus  let  me  fold  my  hands,  and  wait 

The  coming  of  the  morn ; 
While  all  night  long,  o'er  moonlit  turf, 

The  wind  brings  in  from  far 
The  moaning  of  the  baffled  surf 

Athwart  the  harbor  bar. 


135 


EDWIN    BOOTH 

His  barque  will  fade,  in  mist  and  night, 

Across  the  dim  sea-line, 
And  coldly  on  our  aching  sight 

The  solemn  stars  will  shine, — 
All,  all  in  mournful  silence,  save 

For  ocean's  distant  roar — 
Heard  where  the  slow,  regretful  wave 

Sobs  on  the  lonely  shore. 

But,  O,  while,  winged  with  love  and  prayer, 

Our  thoughts  pursue  his  track, 
What  glorious  sights  the  midnight  air 

Will  proudly  waft  us  back  ! 
What  golden  words  will  flutter  down 

From  many  a  peak  of  fame ! 
What  glittering  shapes  of  old  renown 

That  cluster  round  his  name ! 

O'er  storied  Denmark's  haunted  ground 

Will  darkly  drift  again, 
Dream-like  and  vague,  without  a  sound, 

The  spectre  of  the  Dane ; 
And  breaking  hearts  will  be  the  wreath 

For  grief  that  knows  no  tear, 
When  shine  on  Cornwall's  storm-swept  heath 

The  blazing  eyes  of  Lear. 
136 


Slow,  'mid  the  portents  of  the  storm 

And  fate's  avenging  powers, 
Will  moody  Richard's  haggard  form 

Pace  through  the  twilight  hours ; 
And  wildly  hurtling  o'er  the  sky 

The  red  star  of  Macbeth, — 
Torn  from  the  central  arch  on  high, — 

Go  down  in  dusty  death ! 

But, — best  of  all !  will  softly  rise 

His  form  of  manly  grace, — 
The  noble  brow,  the  honest  eyes, 

The  sweetly  patient  face, 
The  loving  heart,  the  stately  mind 

That,  conquering  every  ill, 
Through  seas  of  trouble  cast  behind, 

Was  grandly  steadfast  still ! 

Though  skies  might  gloom  and  tempest  rave, 

Though  friends  and  hopes  might  fall, 
His  constant  spirit,  simply  brave, 

Would  meet  and  suffer  all ; 
Would  calmly  smile  at  fortune's  frown, 

Supreme  o'er  gain  or  loss  ; 
And  he  the  worthiest  wears  the  crown 

That  gently  bore  the  cross  ! 

Be  blithe  and  bright,  thou  jocund  day 

That  golden  England  knows  ! 
Bloom  sweetly  round  the  wanderer's  way, 

Thou  royal  English  rose ! 
137 


And  English  hearts  [no  need  to  tell 

How  truth  itself  endures  !  ] 
This  soul  of  manhood  treasure  well, 

Our  love  commits  to  yours  ! 

Farewell !  nor  mist,  nor  flying  cloud, 

Nor  night  can  ever  dim 
The  wreath  of  honors,  pure  and  proud, 

Our  hearts  have  twined  for  him ! 
But  bells  of  memory  still  shall  chime, 

And  violets  star  the  sod, 
Till  our  last  broken  wave  of  time 

Dies  on  the  shores  of  God. 


138 


FIDELE 

AND  O,  to  think  the  sun  can  shine, 

The  birds  can  sing,  the  flowers  can  bloom, 

And  she,  whose  soul  was  all  divine, 
Be  darkly  mouldering  in  the  tomb : 

That  o'er  her  head  the  night  wind  sighs, 
And  the  sad  cypress  droops  and  moans; 

That  night  has  veiled  her  glorious  eyes, 
And  silence  hushed  her  heavenly  tones : 

That  those  sweet  lips  no  more  can  smile, 
Nor  pity's  tender  shadows  chase, 

With  many  a  gentle,  child-like  wile, 
The  rippling  laughter  o'er  her  face : 

That  dust  is  on  the  burnished  gold 
That  floated  round  her  royal  head ; 

That  her  great  heart  is  dead  and  cold, 
Her  form  of  fire  and  beauty  dead ! 

Roll  on,  gray  earth  and  shining  star, 

And  coldly  mock  our  dreams  of  bliss : 
There  is  no  glory  left  to  mar, 
Nor  any  grief  so  black  as  this ! 


139 


REGRET 

OF  vain  regret  the  heaviest  yoke, 

Whene'er  we  think  upon  our  dead, 
Is  memory  that  we  never  spoke 

The  word  of  love  we  might  have  said ; 
That  never  once,  in  all  the  days 

When  Fate  was  hard  and  life  was  drear, 
We  thought  to  sound  the  note  of  praise, 

Or  speak  the  word  of  hope  and  cheer. 


NEVER 

THE  sere  leaves  rustle  in  the  moaning  blast, 
The  dreary  rain  is  pattering  on  the  roof, 
Sad  bells,  far  off,  toll  through  the  twilight  hours — 
And  I  shall  never  see  thy  face  again ! 

The  shadows  deepen,  but  there  comes  no  dawn ; 
And  through  the  dark  I  hear  the  rustling  robe 
Of  the  grim  angel  that  has  veiled  my  eyes — 
Never  to  see  thy  glorious  face  again ! 


140 


ACROSS    THE    PALL 

Now  she  lies  here,  dead  before  you, 
Motionless  and  gray  as  stone ; 

Now  the  cruel  grief  broods  o'er  you, 
Stricken,  agonized,  and  lone ; 

Now  that  passion's  dream  is  past, 

Well  it  is  we  meet  at  last ! 


Ay,  you  loved  her,  loved  her  truly, 
With  the  utmost  faith  of  man ; 

Sacrificing  all  things  duly, 
As  a  noble  lover  can  ! 

And  she  made  you, — what  I  see ; 

What  'tis  well  that  you  can  be. 

Loved  her  !     Virtue,  truth,  and  honor, 
Sense,  and  manhood, — what  are  they? 

Stand  up  here  and  look  upon  her ! 
'Tis  a  pretty  piece  of  clay. 

Others,  quite  as  fond  and  true, 

Loved  her,  quite  as  well  as  you. 

So  I  pity  you,  poor  dreamer 

(Dreams,  the  longest,  are  not  long), 
141 


And  I  would  not  make  it  seem  her 

Guilt,  that  e'er  she  did  me  wrong. 
She  was  heavenly, — cloud  and  star, — 
She  was  what  the  angels  are. 

Hope  and  wait ;  and  when  you  meet  her, 
With  them,  in  the  Eden  plain, 

Clasp  her  to  your  soul  and  greet  her 
With  a  word  of  noble  pain. 

Tell  her,  in  yon  starry  cope, 

That  I  taught  you  how  to  hope. 

Time  and  tide  flow  on  forever ; 

Pleasure's  ghost  is  always  pain ; 
Life  is  fevered  with  endeavor, 

Sad  with  loss  and  sweet  with  gain ; 
But  there  is  no  certain  bliss 
In  this  world  for  only  this. 

Look  up  bravely  where,  forgiven, 
Erring  hearts  repentant  rest : 

Only  love  and  trust  find  heaven ! 
Still  the  faithful  are  the  blest : 

Faithful  love,  that  ransoms  you, 

Well  may  save  your  idol,  too. 

But  for  me  there  is  no  morrow, 
Crown  of  love  nor  crown  of  fame : 

I  must  tread  a  mighty  sorrow 
In  the  mire  of  sensual  shame. 
142 


Down  I  grovel  on  the  earth, 
Wasting  toward  a  brutish  birth. 

'Tis  a  world  of  commonplaces, 
Empty  hearts  and  shallow  brains, 

Flaunting  fools  with  specious  faces, 
Black  desires  and  crimson  stains : 

When  I  found  that  heart  untrue, 

Love  itself  was  falsehood,  too. 

Always  round  us  are  the  curses, 
And  the  long,  tumultuous  roar : 

We  are  jostled  in  our  hearses, 
Even  as  we  were  before. 

They  alone  escape  the  strife 

Who  attain  the  spirit's  life. 

Hope,  I  say,  till  you  receive  her ; 

Hope, — for  we  are  only  men. 
Lay  her  in  the  grave,  and  leave  her 

Just  your  heart,  to  keep  till  then. 
Take  my  blessing — for  I  know 
All  your  love  and  all  your  woe. 


143 


THE    OUTCAST 

THIS  is  the  place  where  he  brought  her  home, 

Home, — but  not  to  his  heart,  I  know: 
For  it  cannot  be  but  her  memories  roam 

To  the  first  and  the  true  love,  long  ago ! 
Noble,  and  lovely,  and  wretched  bride, 

Doomed,  in  her  gorgeous  palace  of  stone, 
Loveless  forever,  to  sit  by  his  side, 

And  yet  be,  for  ever  and  ever,  alone ! 

Noble  and  beautiful  spirit  of  love ! 

Well,  I  can  wish  you  were  happy, — though 
I  stand  out  here,  while  the  stars  above 

Are  as  white  and  cold  as  the  ground  below. 
I  am  glad  that  the  splendor  is  all  your  own ; 

I  do  not  desire  it — ah,  not  I ! 
But  am  well  content,  at  the  foot  of  your  throne, 

To  sink  in  the  frozen  street  and  die. 

Perhaps  you  would  see  me,  then, — who  knows  ? 

Perhaps  you  would  see,  in  my  haggard  face, 
Whence  they  have  risen, — your  subtle  woes, 

And  the  something  that  saddens  your  stately  grace. 
Perhaps, — ah  me,  I  am  bold,  indeed  ! — 

Perhaps  you  would  touch  me  !    Heart  and  brain  ! 
I  am  sure  it  would  make  the  old  wound  bleed, 

If  it  did  not  wake  me  to  We  again ! 
144 


Lost, — but  I  love  you,  all  the  same : 

'Twas  a  faithful  heart  that  you  threw  away : 
I  can  say  it  now,  and  with  nothing  of  shame, 

For  I  shall  not  live  to  another  day. 
I  can  say,  though  the  night  of  grief  was  long, 

That  the  light  of  morning  struggles  through ; 
And,  lifted  out  of  my  sorrow  and  wrong, 

If  I  cannot  live,  I  can  die  for  you ! 


145 


A    FAREWELL 

LONG  hushed  is  the  harp  that  his  glory  had  spoken, 
Long  stilled  is  the  heart  that  could  summon  its  strain ; 

Now  its  chords  are  all  silent,  or  tuneless,  or  broken, 
What  touch  can  awaken  its  music  again  ! 

Ah,  the  breeze  in  the  green  dells  of  Erin  is  blowing  ! 

If  not  her  great  bard  yet  her  spirit  can  flame, 
When  proud  where  the  waters  of  Shannon  are  flowing 

Her  groves  and  her  temples  re-echo  his  name. 

Float  softly  o'er  shamrocks,  and  blue-bells,  and  roses, 
Blend  all  their  gay  tints  and  their  odors  in  one ; 

And  sweet  as  the  zephyr  in  twilight  that  closes 
Be  the  kiss  of  thy  love  on  the  brows  of  thy  son  ! 

Breathe  tenderly  o'er  us,  who  cluster  around  him, 
In  this  his  glad  moment  of  triumph  and  pride : 

Deep,  deep  in  our  souls  are  the  ties  that  have  bound  him, 
And  life  will  be  lone,  with  his  presence  denied. 

From  the  arms  of  the  mother,  in  childhood  a  rover, 
To  exile  he  came,  on  the  wanderer's  shore : 

To  the  arms  of  the  mother,  his  trials  all  over, 

And  honored  and  laurelled,  we  yield  him  once  more. 

146 


Speak  low  of  affection  that  longs  to  embrace  him, 
Speak  loud  of  the  fame  that  awaits  him  afar, — 

When  homage  shall  hail  him,  and  beauty  shall  grace  him, 
And  pomp  hang  her  wreaths  on  the  conqueror's  car ! 

When  the  shadows  of  time  at  his  touch  fall  asunder, 
And  heroes  and  demi-gods  leap  into  light ; 

When  the  accents  of  Brutus  ring  wild  in  the  thunder, 
And  the  white  locks  of  Lear  toss  like  sea-foam  in  night ; 

When  the  grief  of  the  Moor,  like  a  tempest  that  dashes 
On  crags  in  mid-ocean,  has  died  into  rest ; 

When  the  heart  of  Virginius  breaks,  o'er  the  ashes 
Of  her  who  was  sweetest,  and  purest,  and  best ; 

How  proudly,  how  gladly  their  praise  will  caress  him ! 

How  brightly  the  jewels  will  blaze  in  his  crown ! 
How  the  white  hands  of  honor  will  greet  him  and  bless  him 

With  lilies  and  roses  of  perfect  renown ! 

Ah,  grand  is  the  flight  of  the  eagle  of  morning, 

While  the  dark  world  beneath  him  drifts  into  the  deep  ; 

But  cold  as  the  snow-wreaths  the  mountains  adorning 
Is  the  light  that  illumines  his  desolate  sweep. 

When  the  trumpets  are  blown   and  the  standards  are 

streaming, 

And  the  festal  lamps  beam  on  the  royal  array, 
How  oft  will  the  heart  of  the  monarch  be  dreaming 
Of  the  home  and  the  friends  that  are  far,  far  away  ! 

147 


There's  a  pulse  in  his  breast  that  would  always  regret  us, 
It  dances  in  laughter,  it  trembles  in  tears ; 

With  the  world  at  his  feet,  he  would  never  forget  us, 
And  our  hearts  would  be  true,  through  an  seon  of  years  ! 

The  cymbals  may  clash  and  the  gay  pennons  glisten, 
And  the  clangor  of  gladness  ring  jocund  and  free, 

But,  calm  in  the  tumult,  his  spirit  will  listen 
For  our  whisper  of  love,  floating  over  the  sea : 

For  the  music  of  tones  that  were  once  so  endearing, — 
Like  a  wind  of  the  west  o'er  a  prairie  of  flowers, — 

But  that  never  again  will  resound  in  his  hearing, 
Except  through  the  tremulous  sadness  of  ours. 

Ah,  manly  and  tender,  thy  deeds  are  thy  praises ! 

Speed  on  in  thy  grandeur,  all  peerless  and  lone, 
And  greet,  in  old  England,  her  hawthorns  and  daisies, — 

A  spirit  as  gentle  and  bright  as  their  own ! 

Speed  on,  wheresoever  fame's  angel  may  guide  thee ! 

No  fancy  can  dream  and  no  language  can  tell 
What  faith  and  what  blessings  walk  ever  beside  thee, 

Or  the  depth  of  our  love,  as  we  bid  thee  Farewell. 


148 


THE    CHURCHYARD 


THE  lonesome  wind  of  autumn  grieves ; 

The  northern  lights  are  seen ; 
October  sheds  her  changing  leaves 

Upon  the  churchyard  green, 
Where,  sitting  pensive  in  the  sun, 

While  fading  grasses  wave, 
I  watch  the  crickets  leap  and  run, 

Upon  a  nameless  grave. 

There  is  no  sigh  of  fluttering  leaf, 

No  sob  of  rustling  grass ; 
The  breezes  o'er  this  place  of  grief 

In  breathless  whisper  pass ; 
Yet,  like  a  murmur  in  a  dream, 

Purls  on  that  insect  voice, — 
That  vacant  tone,  which  does  not  seem 

To  mourn  or  to  rejoice : 

A  tone  that  hath  no  soothing  grace, 

A  tone  that  nothing  saith, 
A  tone  that's  like  this  solemn  place 

Of  memory,  tears,  and  death, — 
149 


It  darkens  hope,  it  deepens  gloom, 
Black  dread  and  doubt  profound, 

Turning  the  silence  of  the  tomb 
To  more  mysterious  sound. 

There's  night  upon  the  face  of  fame, 

There's  night  on  beauty's  eyes, 
Nor  pure  renown  nor  glorious  shame 

From  out  their  ashes  rise : 
In  vain  we  seek  the  shrine  of  prayer, 

Of  Nature  ask  in  vain ! 
We  only  know  the  form  that's  there 

Can  never  come  again. 

Ah,  piteous,  desolate,  and  drear 

This  dark,  mysterious  sleep, 
O'er  which  the  slowly  dying  year 

Is  all  that  seems  to  weep ! 
Ah,  save  him,  in  that  bitter  day, — 

His  heart,  his  reason  save, — 
Who  hears  the  crickets  chirp,  at  play, 

Upon  his  darling's  grave ! 


150 


THE    ANGEL    OF    DEATH 

COME  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must, 
Evangel  of  the  world  to  be, 

And  touch  and  glorify  this  dust, — 

This  shuddering  dust,  that  now  is  me, — 
And  from  this  prison  set  me  free ! 

Long  in  those  awful  eyes  I  quail, 
That  gaze  across  the  grim  profound  : 

Upon  that  sea  there  is  no  sail, 
Nor  any  light  nor  any  sound 
From  the  far  shore  that  girds  it  round  : 

Only, — two  still  and  steady  rays 

That  those  twin  orbs  of  doom  o'ertop ; 

Only, — a  tranquil,  patient  gaze 

That  drinks  my  being,  drop  by  drop, 
And  bids  the  pulse  of  Nature  stop. 

Come  with  a  smile,  auspicious  friend, 
To  usher  in  the  eternal  day ! 

Of  these  weak  terrors  make  an  end, 
And  charm  the  paltry  chains  away 
That  bind  me  to  this  timorous  clay ! 
151 


And  let  me  know  my  soul  akin 

To  sunrise,  and  the  winds  of  morn, 

And  every  grandeur  that  has  been 
Since  this  refulgent  world  was  born, — 
Nor  longer  droop  in  my  own  scorn ! 

Come,  when  the  way  grows  dark  and  chill ! 

Come,  when  the  baffled  mind  is  weak, 
And  in  the  heart  the  voice  is  still, 

That  used  in  happier  days  to  speak, 

Or  only  whispers,  sadly  meek. 

Come  with  thy  smile  that  dims  the  sun, 
Thy  pitying  heart  and  gentle  hand, 

To  waft  me,  from  my  vigil  done, 

To  peace,  that  waits  on  thy  command, 
In  some  yet  undiscovered  land ! 


152 


LAWRENCE    BARRETT 


WHEN  from  his  gaze  our  shores  receding 

In  night  and  distance  drift  away, 
And,  every  present  joy  unheeding, 

He  turns  to  muse,  and  grieve,  and  pray, 
How  will  regret  and  memory,  meeting, 

This  brilliant  scene  bring  back  to  view, 
And  hear  once  more  your  ardent  greeting, 

And  sigh  once  more  his  fond  adieu ! 

And  we,  by  sadness  made  more  tender, 

As  here  we  knit  our  broken  chain, — 
How  gladly  will  affection  render 

Our  gentle  tribute  once  again  ! 
How  sweet  'twill  be,  though  joys  are  thwarted, 

And  smiles  rebuked  by  sorrow's  sigh, 
To  think,  however  friends  are  parted, 

At  least  that  friendship  cannot  die ! 

His  eyes  will  look  on  English  meadows 
Where  scarlet  poppies  smile  and  dream ; 

And  he  will  muse  where  wandering  shadows 
Drift  over  Avon's  sacred  stream ; 
153 


And,  mind  and  soul  in  bondage  taken, 
Will  roam  those  temples  strange  and  vast, 

Where  every  pensive  step  will  waken 
The  glorious  memories  of  the  past. 


But  we  shall  hear,  in  grief  beclouded, 

Poor  Harebell  mourn  his  ruined  home ; 
And  see,  in  night  and  tempest  shrouded, 

Grim  Cassius  pace  the  stones  of  Rome ; 
With  grizzled  Yorick,  frenzy-ridden, 

From  passion's  fevered  dream  awake ; 
And  feel,  with  tears  that  flow  unbidden, 

The  royal  heart  of  Scotland  break. 


O,  Art  divine,  supreme,  undying, — 

Not  time  nor  space  can  e'er  subdue ! 
The  seas  roll  on, — the  years  are  flying, — 

Man  passes, — thou  alone  art  true ! 
No  cloud  can  dim  their  deathless  lustre 

Whose  names  thy  angel  hands  enroll, 
Nor  blight  the  shining  shapes  that  cluster 

In  thy  pantheon  of  the  soul ! 


Yet,  many  a  cherished  tie  is  broken, 
Across  that  darkening  waste  of  sea ! — 

They  make  no  sign,  they  send  no  token, 
They  come  not  back  to  love  and  me. 
154 


I  know  where,  deaf  to  blames  and  praises, 
In  youth  and  beauty  cold  and  dead, 

Rests  now  beneath  old  England's  daisies 
Her  tenderest  heart,  her  loveliest  head. 

And  him  we  cast  the  roses  after, 

Whose  cynic  smile  was  humor's  kiss, 
Whose  magic  turned  the  world  to  laughter ,- 

Where  dwells  he,  in  an  hour  like  this  ? 
Ah,  let  us  think,  though  gone  before  us, — 

The  vanished  friends  of  days  no  more, — 
They  watch  with  fond  affection  o'er  us, 

And  bless  us  from  their  heavenly  shore. 

I  see  the  radiant  phantoms  thronging, 

To  clasp  him  in  their  guardian  thrall ! 
I  bless  him,  by  each  noble  longing 

That  e'er  his  gentle  lips  let  fall ! 
By  all  high  thought  and  pure  devotion, 

By  towering  pine  and  nestling  rose ! 
Farewell,  farewell !  on  land  or  ocean — 

God  bless  him,  wheresoe'er  he  goes ! 


155 


THE    VEILED    MUSE 

SPIRIT  of  Beauty,  haunt  me  not ! 

Thou  bring'st  insufferable  pain  : 
Thou,  who  art  gone,  be  thou  forgot, 

Nor  rise  to  vex  my  rest  again, 
Either  with  memories  sadly  sweet, 
Or  hopes  foredoomed  to  dull  defeat ! 

Ah,  come  no  more  in  rustling  leaves, 
Or  peaceful  grass,  or  breath  of  flowers ! 

Enough  this  baffled  spirit  grieves, 
Remembering  thee  in  rosy  hours : 

Spare  it  the  throbs  of  hope  and  fear, — 

The  cruel  sense  that  thou  art  near ! 

The  passion  dies  within  my  soul ; 

The  music  dies  within  my  brain ; 
Save  when  there  comes  a  funeral  toll — 

A  low,  lamenting,  sad  refrain, 
An  echo  from  that  shrine  of  song 
Long  darkened,  and  deserted  long. 

In  what  was  fair  I  once  had  part, 

But  all  fair  things  are  now  my  shame : 

Their  nameless  beauty  hurts  my  heart, 
Because  I  cannot  speak  its  name : 

Spoken,  'twould  make  my  soul  rejoice ; 

But  now  I  cannot  give  it  voice. 
156 


Once  in  these  veins  the  blood  was  warm ; 

With  ardent  hope  this  heart  beat  high ; 
And  the  great  gales  that  proudly  storm 

The  loftiest  ramparts  of  the  sky 
Were  not  more  daring,  fierce  and  strong 
Than  this  now  silent  soul  of  song. 

But  wasted  now  that  youth  of  gold, 
Not  heaven  itself  again  could  give ; 

And  he  to  die  may  well  be  bold 
Who  is  not  bold  enough  to  live, — 

In  haunted  silence  of  disgrace, 

Where  hushed  thy  voice  and  veiled  thy  face. 

Ah,  come  no  more  to  do  me  wrong 
In  twilight  hours  of  tender  dream, 

When  this  worn  spirit  seems  less  strong 

Than  evening  mist  that  shrouds  the  stream ! 

Though  love  be  dead,  at  least  retain 

Some  pity  for  thy  lover's  pain  : 

Remembering  still,  though  all  be  past, 
That  thou  and  I  clasped  hands  in  youth : 

I  saw  thee  close,  I  held  thee  fast, 

Plucked  kisses  from  thy  rosy  mouth, — 

Learning  the  bliss  which  now  I  weep, 

The  love  I  won,  but  could  not  keep. 


157 


THE    GOLDEN    SILENCE 

WHAT  though  I  sing  no  other  song  ? 

What  though  I  speak  no  other  word  ? 
Is  silence  shame  ?     Is  patience  wrong  ? — 

At  least  one  song  of  mine  was  heard : 

One  echo  from  the  mountain  air, 
One  ocean  murmur,  glad  and  free, 

One  sign  that  nothing  grand  or  fair 
In  all  this  world  was  lost  to  me. 

I  will  not  wake  the  sleeping  lyre; 

I  will  not  strain  the  chords  of  thought ; 
The  sweetest  fruit  of  all  desire 

Comes  its  own  way,  and  comes  unsought. 

Though  all  the  bards  of  earth  were  dead, 
And  all  their  music  passed  away, 

What  Nature  wishes  should  be  said 
She'll  find  the  rightful  voice  to  say ! 

Her  heart  is  in  the  shimmering  leaf, 
The  drifting  cloud,  the  lonely  sky, 

And  all  we  know  of  bliss  or  grief 

She  speaks,  in  forms  that  cannot  die. 

The  mountain  peaks  that  shine  afar, 
The  silent  stars,  the  pathless  sea, 

Are  living  signs  of  all  we  are, 
And  types  of  all  we  hope  to  be. 
158 


IN    PEACE 

GREEN  trees,  and  grassy  fields,  and  sunset  light, 
With  holy  silence,  save  for  rippling  leaves, 

And  birds  that  twitter  of  the  coming  night, 

Calling  their  mates,  beneath  my  cottage  eaves, — 

These  Fate  hath  granted,  for  a  little  space, 
To  be  companions  of  my  pilgrimage, 

Filling  my  grateful  heart  with  Nature's  grace. 

Not  unremembered  here  life's  garish  stage, 

Nor  the  wild  city's  uproar,  nor  the  race 
For  gain  and  power,  in  which  all  lives  engage ; 

But  here  remembered  dimly,  in  a  dream, 
As  something  fretful  that  hath  ceased  to  fret, — 

Now,  when  time  lapses  like  a  gentle  stream, 
Hid  in  the  woodland's  heart,  and  I  forget 

To  note  its  music  and  its  silver  gleam. 

But  never,  never  let  me  cease  to  know, 

O  whispering  woods  and  daisy-sprinkled  grass, 

The  beauty  and  the  peace  that  you  bestow, 
When  the  wild  fevers  of  ambition  pass, 

And  the  worn  spirit,  in  its  gloom  and  grief, 

Sinks  on  your  bosom  and  there  finds  relief  ! 


159 


LONGFELLOW 

ALONE,  at  night,  he  heard  them  sigh, — 

These  wild  March  winds  that  beat  his  tomb,- 

Alone,  at  night,  from  those  that  die, 
He  sought  one  ray  to  light  his  gloom : 

And  still  he  heard  the  night- winds  moan, 
And  still  the  mystery  closed  him  round, 

And  still  the  darkness,  cold  and  lone, 
Sent  forth  no  ray,  returned  no  sound. 

But  time  at  last  the  answer  brings, 
And  he,  past  all  our  suns  and  snows, 

At  rest  with  peasants  and  with  kings, 
Like  them  the  wond'rous  secret  knows. 

Alone,  at  night,  we  hear  them  sigh, — 

These  wild  March  winds  that  stir  his  pall ; 

And,  helpless,  wandering,  lost,  we  cry 
To  his  dim  ghost  to  tell  us  all. 

He  loved  us  while  he  lingered  here ; 

We  loved  him, — never  love  more  true ! 
He  will  not  leave  in  doubt  and  fear 

The  human  grief  that  once  he  knew. 
160 


For  never  yet  was  born  the  day 

When,  faint  of  heart  and  weak  of  limb, 

One  suffering  creature  turned  away, 

Unhelped,  unsoothed,  uncheered  by  him ! 

But  still,  through  darkness,  dense  and  bleak, 
The  winds  of  March  moan  wildly  round, 

And  still  we  feel  that  all  we  seek 
Ends  in  that  sigh  of  vacant  sound. 

He  cannot  tell  us — none  can  tell 
What  waits  behind  the  mystic  veil ! 

Yet  he  who  lived  and  died  so  well, 
In  that,  perchance,  has  told  the  tale. 

Not  to  the  wastes  of  Nature  drift, — 
Else  were  this  world  an  evil  dream, — 

The  crown  and  soul  of  Nature's  gift, 
By  Avon  or  by  Charles's  stream  ! 

His  song  was  like  the  pine-tree's  sigh, 
At  midnight  o'er  a  poet's  grave, 

Or  like  the  sea-bird's  distant  cry, 
Borne  far  across  the  twilight  wave. 

There  is  no  flower  of  meek  delight, 
There  is  no  star  of  heavenly  pride, 

That  shines  not  fairer  and  more  bright 
Because  he  lived,  loved,  sang,  and  died. 
161 


Wild  winds  of  March,  his  requiem  sing ! 

Weep  o'er  him,  April's  sorrowing  skies  ! 
Till  come  the  tender  buds  of  spring 

To  deck  the  pillow  where  he  lies  : 

Till  violets  pour  their  purple  flood, 
That  wandering  myrtle  shall  not  lack, 

And,  royal  with  the  summer's  blood, 
The  roses  that  he  loved  come  back : 

Till  all  that  Nature  gives  of  light, 
To  rift  the  gloom  and  point  the  way, 

Shall  sweetly  pierce  our  mortal  night, 
And  symbol  his  immortal  day ! 


162 


A    REVERIE 


THE  peace  of  this  autumnal  day 
Allures  my  dreaming  thoughts  away 
To  that  great  world  beyond  the  deep, 
Where  I  so  many  treasures  keep. 
There,  fond  and  true,  one  friend  I  find, 
Whose  tender  heart  and  constant  mind 
Gave,  while  he  lingered  here  on  earth, 
Comfort,  and  cheer,  and  hope,  and  mirth ; 
And  still  they  waft  a  cordial  breath 
Across  the  icy  waves  of  death. 
His  nature,  while  he  dwelt  below, 
Was  like  these  days  :  this  season's  glow, 
The  misty  sky,  the  sleeping  sea, 
The  browning  grass,  the  burnished  tree, 
The  wild-flowers,  swinging  o'er  the  brook, 
Were  in  his  heart  as  in  his  book. 
Alive,  he  charmed  away  life's  fret 
With  all  the  sunshine  he  could  get, 
And,  when  death  whispered,  softly  crept 
Into  a  quiet  place  and  slept ; 
And  Nature  never  saw  more  grace 
Than  hallowed  then  his  noble  face. 
163 


And  so,  to  think  upon  him  here, 
In  this  sweet  season  of  the  year, — 
Which  he  so  loved,  which  he  was  like 
As  clouds  are  to  the  clouds  they  strike, — 
Is  winning  peace,  and  strength  to  live, 
Beyond  what  all  the  world  can  give. 


II 


Ah,  not  to  me,  dear  heart,  was  said 
The  word  that  crowned  thy  royal  head 
First  with  the  aureole's  light  and  bloom, 
And  then  the  amaranth  of  the  tomb. 
Fate  gave  thee  power,  and  calm,  and  poise, 
And  all  thy  days  and  deeds  were  joys. 
Thine  were  the  forest  and  the  flood, 
The  sunrise  sparkled  in  thy  blood, 
And  thou  didst  hold  a  careless  flight 
Above  the  dells  and  caves  of  night. 
But  ever  through  thy  smile  shone  clear 
The  lustre  of  compassion's  tear, 
The  pity  of  thy  gentle  mind, 
And  tenderness,  for  all  mankind. 
I  saw  thee  with  a  wistful  eye, 
And  saddened, — and  I  knew  not  why ; 
Till  soon,  too  soon,  thy  summons  came, 
And  thou  wert  nothing  but  a  name. 
Ah,  day  of  misery  and  of  moan, 
When  grief  and  I  were  left  alone ! 
164 


Ill 


Fate  gave  not  me  her  smile  benign, — 
That  pensive,  playful  calm  of  thine, — 
But  early  from  her  bosom  cast, 
To  be  the  sport  of  every  blast ; 
To  war  with  passion,  and  to  know 
The  sting  of  want,  the  pang  of  woe, — 
Forcing  a  soul,  for  kindness  born, 
To  every  strife  it  held  in  scorn. 
So,  careless  whether  right  or  wrong, 
I  battled  through  the  hostile  throng, 
And  felt,  whatever  doom  might  be, 
Or  life  or  death,  the  same  to  me. 
'Twas  then  across  my  pathway  lone 
The  holy  star  of  friendship  shone ! 
'Twas  then  thy  kindness  soothed  my  pain, 
And  arched  the  heaven  of  hope  again ! 
As,  sudden  through  the  stormy  dark, 
Full  on  the  tempest-battered  barque, 
Home's  glad  and  golden  beacons  shine, 
So  flashed  thy  spirit  upon  mine : 
And  not,  though  hope's  last  star  were  set, 
Could  this  true  heart  of  mine  forget ! 


IV 


Now,  of  our  few  but  happy  years 
Remains  this  flower,  that  bloomed  in  tears 
Not  of  the  crown  of  life  bereft 
Is  he  who  yet  has  patience  left, 
165 


The  haggard  sky,  the  surf's  dull  roar, 
The  midnight  storm,  are  mine  no  more ; 
But  mine  the  gleam  of  setting  sun, 
The  call  of  birds  when  day  is  done, 
The  last,  sad  light,  so  loath  to  pass 
It  weeps  upon  the  golden  grass, 
The  sigh  of  leaves,  in  evening  air, 
The  distant  bell  that  calls  to  prayer, — 
And  nothing  from  my  spirit  bars 
The  benediction  of  the  stars. 


Ah,  loved  so  well  and  mourned  so  long, 
Here  in  my  heart  as  in  my  song, 
To  thy  dear  memory  let  me  raise 
One  tender  strain  of  other  days, 
One  paean  to  the  good  thou  wast, 
One  low  lament  for  all  I  lost. 
Yet,  looking  o'er  life's  arid  track, 
Kind  soul,  I  would  not  wish  thee  back. 
What  sadder  lot,  what  doom  of  fate, 
More  sterile  is,  more  desolate, 
Than  here  to  goad  our  wearied  powers, 
And  toil  through  times  that  are  not  ours ! 
Ah,  no,  the  silence  now  is  best, 
The  leaf  down-fluttering  o'er  thy  rest, 
And  every  kind,  caressing  sigh 
That  Nature  breathes  o'er  those  that  die ; 
While  thou,  in  some  serener  sphere, 
Forget'st  the  toils  and  troubles  here ; 
166 


Or,  made  a  part  of  flowers  and  trees, 
Art  pure,  and  calm,  and  safe,  like  these. 


VI 


Slow  pales  the  light ;  the  day  declines ; 
The  night-wind  murmurs  in  the  pines ; 
The  stars  come  out,  and,  far  away, 
Across  the  sweetly  sleeping  bay, 
One  snow-white  sail,  by  sunset  kist, 
Fades  slowly  in  the  ocean  mist, 
Fades, — like  all  joys  and  griefs  we  know, 
And  like  this  dream  of  Long  Ago. 


167 


EGERIA 

THE  star  I  worship  shines  alone, 
In  native  grandeur  set  apart ; 

Its  light,  its  beauty,  all  my  own, 
And  imaged  only  in  my  heart. 

The  flower  I  love  lifts  not  its  face 
For  other  eyes  than  mine  to  see ; 

And,  having  lost  that  sacred  grace, 
'Twould  have  no  other  charm  for  me. 

The  hopes  I  bear,  the  joys  I  feel, 
Are  silent,  secret,  and  serene ; 

Pure  is  the  shrine  at  which  I  kneel,  •• 
And  purity  herself  my  queen. 

I  would  not  have  an  impious  gaze 
Profane  the  altar  where  are  laid 

My  hopes  of  nobler,  grander  days, 

By  heaven  inspired,  by  earth  betrayed. 

I  would  not  have  the  noontide  sky 
Pour  down  its  bold,  obtrusive  light 

Where  all  the  springs  of  feeling  lie, 
Deep  in  the  soul's  celestial  night. 
168 


Far  from  the  weary  strife  and  noise, 
The  tumult  of  the  great  To-day, 

I  guard  my  own  congenial  joys, 
And  keep  my  own  sequestered  way. 

For  all  that  world  is  cursed  with  care, 
Has  nothing  holy,  nothing  dear ; 

No  light,  no  music  anywhere, — 
It  will  not  see,  it  will  not  hear. 

But  thou,  sweet  spirit,  viewless  power, 
Whom  I  have  loved  and  trusted  long, — 

In  pleasure's  day,  in  sorrow's  hour, — 
Muse  of  my  life  and  of  my  song ; 

Breathe  softly,  thou,  with  peaceful  voice, 
In  my  soul's  temple,  vast  and  dim ! 

In  thy  own  perfect  joy  rejoice, 

With  morning  and  with  evening  hymn ! 

And  though  my  hopes  should  round  me  fall, 
Like  rain  drops  in  a  boundless  sea, 

I  will  not  think  I  lose  them  all 
While  yet  I  keep  my  trust  in  thee ! 


169 


AMARANTH 

RED  globes  of  autumn  strew  the  sod, 

The  bannered  woods  wear  crimson  shields, 
The  aster  and  the  golden-rod 
Deck  all  the  fields. 

No  clarion  blast,  at  morning  blown, 

Should  greet  the  way-worn  veteran  here, 
Nor  roll  of  drum  nor  trumpet-tone 
Assail  his  ear. 

No  jewelled  ensigns  now  should  smite, 

With  jarring  flash,  down  emerald  steeps, 
Where  sweetly  in  the  sunset  light 
The  valley  sleeps. 

No  bolder  ray  should  bathe  this  bower 

Than  when,  above  the  glimmering  stream, 
The  crescent  moon,  in  twilight's  hour, 
First  sheds  her  beam. 

No  ruder  note  should  break  the  thrall, 

That  love  and  peace  and  honor  weave, 
Than  some  lone  wild-bird's  gentle  call, 
At  summer  eve. 
170 


But  here  should  float  the  voice  of  song, — 

Like  evening  winds  in  autumn  leaves, 
Sweet  with  the  balm  they  waft  along 
From  golden  sheaves. 

The  sacred  past  should  feel  its  spell, 

And  here  should  murmur,  soft  and  low, 
The  voices  that  he  loved  so  well, — 
Long,  long  ago. 

The  vanished  scenes  should  give  to  this 

The  cherished  forms  of  other  days, 
And  rosy  lips  that  felt  his  kiss 
Breathe  out  his  praise. 

The  comrades  of  his  young  renown 

Should  proudly  throng  around  him  now, 
When  falls  the  spotless  laurel  crown 
Upon  his  brow. 

Not  in  their  clamorous  shouts  who  make 

The  noonday  pomp  of  glory's  lord 
Does  the  true  soul  of  manhood  take 
Its  high  reward. 

But  when,  from  all  the  glimmering  years, 

Beneath  the  moonlight  of  the  past 
The  strong  and  tender  spirit  hears 
Well  done,'  at  last ; 
171 


When  love  looks  forth  from  heavenly  eyes, 

And  heavenly  voices  make  acclaim, 
And  all  his  deeds  of  kindness  rise 
To  bless  his  name ; 

When  all  that  has  been  sweetly  blends 

With  all  that  is,  and  both  revere 
The  life  so  lovely  in  its  ends, 
So  pure,  so  dear ; 

Then  leaps,  indeed,  the  golden  flame 

Of  blissful  pride  to  rapture's  brim, — 
The  fire  that  sacramental  fame 
Has  lit  for  him  ! 


For  him  who,  lord  of  joy  and  woe, 

Through  half  a  century's  snow-white  years 
Has  gently  ruled,  in  humor's  glow, 
The  fount  of  tears. 


True,  simple,  earnest,  patient,  kind, 

Through  griefs  that  many  a  weaker  will 
Had  stricken  dead,  his  noble  mind 
Was  constant  still. 

Sweet,  tender,  playful,  thoughtful,  droll, 

His  gentle  genius  still  has  made 
Mirth's  perfect  sunshine  in  the  soul, 
And  pity's  shade. 
172 


With  amaranths  of  eternal  spring 

Be  all  his  life's  calm  evening  drest, 
While  summer  winds  around  him  sing 
The  songs  of  rest ! 

And  thou,  O  Memory,  strange  and  dread, 

That  stand'st  on  heaven's  ascending  slope, 
Lay  softly  on  his  reverend  head 
The  wreath  of  hope  ! 

So  softly,  when  the  port  he  wins, 

To  which  life's  happiest  breezes  blow, 
That  where  earth  ends  and  heaven  begins 
He  shall  not  know. 


173 


GOOD-NIGHT 

' GOOD-NIGHT,  my  boy';   and  with  a  smile 

He  turned  his  steps  and  sped  away : 
Since  then  'tis  but  a  little  while, 

And  he  is  dead  to-day : 
Dead, — and  the  friend  whom  once  I  knew, 

My  comrade  both  in  joy  and  pain, 
So  often  tried  and  always  true, 

Will  never  smile  again. 


His  days  were  many,  and  the  world 

Had  most  of  all  his  thought  and  care ; 
But  now  his  sails  of  toil  were  furled 

In  art's  serener  air. 
The  evening  lamp,  the  storied  page, 

The  mantling  glass,  the  song,  the  jest,- 
These  turned  the  twilight  of  his  age 

To  morning  and  to  rest. 


The  thorny  paths  of  life  he  knew ; 

His  tender  heart  was  quick  to  feel ; 
And  wounds  his  pity  wept  to  view, 

His  bounty  glowed  to  heal. 
174 


Of  worldly  ways,  of  frailty's  slips, 
Of  mortal  sin,  he  had  his  share ; 

Yet  still  could  breathe,  with  childhood's  lips, 
His  artless  childhood's  prayer. 

Good  deeds  were  all  the  work  he  wrought ; 

Sweet  thoughts,  and  merry,  all  he  prized ; 
Nor  power  nor  fame  by  him  was  sought, 

Nor  homely  life  despised. 
Strife  could  not  live  before  his  face, 

But  wheresoe'er  his  footsteps  fell 
Came  kindness,  with  its  smile  of  grace, 

And  everything  was  well. 

He  did  not  strive  to  win  the  heights ; 

Enough  for  him  the  lowly  vale, 
The  autumn  sunset's  pensive  lights, 

The  autumn's  perfumed  gale : 
But  toilers  on  the  upward  slope, 

Who  greatly  strove  and  bravely  dared, 
Had  cheer  of  him,  and  felt  new  hope, 

Howe'er  their  fortune  fared. 

To  brighten  life,  where'er  he  went, 

With  laughter's  sparkle,  and  to  make 
Home's  fireside  lovely  with  content, 

For  gentle  humor's  sake, — 
That  was  his  fate.     Ah,  darkly  shows 

The  path  where  yesterday  he  shone, — 
That  downward  path  of  many  woes 

That  we  must  tread,  alone. 
175 


Yet  he,  like  us,  had  lost  and  grieved : 

He  knew  how  hard  it  is  to  bear, 
When,  lone  and  listless  and  bereaved, 

We  sink  in  dumb  despair : 
And  could  those  lips,  now  marble  chill, 

But  speak  once  more  from  that  true  heart, 
With  what  a  jocund,  blithe  good-will 

They'd  bid  our  grief  depart ! 

It  was  but  yesterday  he  went : 

This  is  the  room,  and  that  the  door : 
When  some  few  idle  days  are  spent 

'Twill  all  be  as  before : 
The  heavenly  morning  will  destroy 

This  rueful  dream  of  death  and  pain, 
And  I  shall  hear  him  say,  'My  boy/ 

And  clasp  his  hand  again. 


THE    NIGHT    WIND 

THE  night-wind  that  sobs  in  the  trees — 
Ah,  would  that  my  spirit  could  tell 
What  an  infinite  meaning  it  breathes, 
What  a  sorrow  and  longing  it  wakes ! 


176 


EBB    TIDE 

IN  dusky  gloom  she  sits  apart, 

Beyond  the  moonlight's  silver  glow, 

With  tender  fancies  at  her  heart, — 
That  bloomed,  and  withered,  long  ago. 

Her  patient  eyes  are  wet  with  tears, 
Her  face  is  pale  with  want  and  care, 

And  all  the  griefs  of  all  her  years, 
Transfigured,  crown  her  snowy  hair. 

Gaunt  sorrow  claims  her,  heart  and  brain ; 

She  bears  the  burden  of  the  cross ; 
She  hears  a  solemn  dirge  of  pain, 

The  sad,  old  song  of  love  and  loss.  .  .  . 

So  glide  the  lonesome  hours  away : 
The  song  is  still,  the  grief  is  past ; 

Alike  to  her  are  night  and  day— 
And  life  and  trouble  rest  at  last. 


177 


AT     STRATFORD 


WHILE  Evening  waits  and  hearkens, 

While  yet  the  song-bird  calls, 
Before  the  last  light  darkens, 

Before  the  last  leaf  falls,— 
Once  more,  with  reverent  feeling, 

This  sacred  shrine  I  seek, — 
In  silent  awe  revealing 

The  love  I  cannot  speak. 

II 

Still  flows,  rejoicing  in  one  hallowed  name, 
The  golden  tide  of  reverence  and  acclaim ; 
Still,  through  long  years,  the  lowly  and  the  great 
Around  his  shrine  and  in  his  temple  wait. 
And  sure  no  holier  impulse  can  impart 
Exalted  gladness  to  the  reverent  heart 
Than  this,  which  prompts  its  homage  to  one  soul 
That  measur'd,  sounded,  and  express'd  the  whole. 


178 


VIOLET 

ONE  name  I  shall  not  forget, — 
Gentle  name  of  Violet. 

Many  and  strange  the  years  have  sped 
She  who  bore  that  name  is  dead : 

Dead, — and  resting  by  the  sea, 
Where  she  gave  her  heart  to  me : 

Dead, — and  now  the  grasses  wave, 
And  the  dry  leaves,  o'er  her  grave, 

Rustling  in  the  autumn  wind, 
Like  the  sad  thoughts  in  my  mind. 

She  was  light,  and  soon  forgot ; 
Loved  me  well  and  loved  me  not : 

Changeful  as  the  April  sky, 
Kind  or  cruel,  sad  or  shy ; 

Gray-eyed,  winsome,  arch,  and  fair, — 
My  youth's  passion  and  despair. 
179 


Now,  through  storms  of  many  years, 
Now,  through  tender  mist  of  tears, 

Looking  backward,  I  can  see 
She  was  always  true  to  me. 

Yet,  with  prisoned  tears  that  burn, 
Cold  we  parted,  wayward,  stern ; 

Spoke  the  fatal  farewell  word, 
Neither  meant  and  neither  heard ; 

Spoke, — and  parted  in  our  pain, 
Nevermore  to  meet  again. 

Sometimes,  underneath  the  moon, 
On  rose-laden  nights  of  June, — 

When  white  clouds  drift  o'er  the  blue, 
While  the  pale  stars  glimmer  through, 

And  the  honeysuckle  throws 
Fragrant  challenge  to  the  rose, 

And  the  liberal  pine-tree  flings 
Perfume  on  the  midnight's  wings, — 

Came,  with  thrills  of  hope  and  fear, 
Mystic  sense  that  she  was  near ; 
180 


Came  the  thought, — 'Through  good  and  ill 
She  loves,  and  she  remembers  still ! ' 

But  no  word  e'er  came  or  went ; 
And,  when  nine  long  years  were  spent, 

Something  in  my  bosom  said, 
Very  softly,  'She  is  dead!' 

Now,  at  sombre  autumn  eve, 
Wandering  where  the  woodlands  grieve, 

Or  where  wild  winds  whistle  free, 
On  the  hills  that  front  the  sea, 

Cruel  thoughts  of  love  and  loss 
Nail  my  spirit  to  the  cross. 

Friends  have  fallen,  youth  is  gone, 
Fields  are  brown  and  skies  are  wan : 

One  name  I  shall  not  forget, — 
Gentle  name  of  Violet. 


181 


THE    SEQUEL 

THE  moonbeams  on  the  water  sleep, 

In  breathing  light, 
And  tender  thoughts  and  memories  keep 

My  soul  to-night. 

Shades  of  sweet  hours,  forever  gone, 

Return  unsought, 
And  waves  of  mournful  joy  dance  on 

The  stream  of  thought. 

A  dreamy  fragrance  seems  to  rise 

From  other  years, — 
A  solemn  bliss,  that  dims  the  eyes 

With  happy  tears. 

Life  wears  the  glow  of  rosy  grace 

That  first  it  wore, 
And  smiles  are  lit  on  many  a  face 

That  smiles  no  more. 

The  gentle  friends  I  used  to  greet, — 

They  all  are  here : 
All  forms  are  fair,  all  voices  sweet, 

All  memories  dear. 
182 


All  happy  thoughts,  all  glorious  dreams, 

That  once  were  mine, 
Rise,  in  the  tender  light  that  beams 

From  auld  lang  syne. 

But  something  in  the  heart  is  wrong, — 

The  joyous  sway, 
The  spirit  and  the  voice  of  song 

Have  died  away. 

These  winds,  that  on  their  cloudy  cars 

Sweep  through  the  sky, 
These  wandering,  watching,  deathless  stars, 

My  prayer  deny. 

These  low,  sweet  murmurs  from  the  land 

And  from  the  sea, 
These  waves,  that  kiss  the  silver  sand, 

Speak  not  to  me. 

And  not  to  me  one  voice  shall  speak 

For  evermore, 
Though  the  same  waves  in  beauty  break 

On  the  same  shore. 

Shine  stars,  sob  waves,  and  murmur  blast, 

And  night-dews  weep ! 
To  wait  is  left  me,  and  at  last 

The  dreamless  sleep. 


183 


NOT    FORGOTTEN" 

EARLY,  but  not  too  early  for  thy  fame, 
The  seal  of  silence  on  thy  lips  is  laid, 
While  we,  aghast,  disheartened,  and  dismayed, 

Crush  back  our  tears  and  softly  speak  thy  name. 

To  us  it  has  one  meaning  and  the  same — 
A  brave  and  gentle  soul,  a  noble  mind, 
Pure,  constant,  generous,  modest  and  refined, 

With  simple  duty  for  its  only  aim. 

Dear  are  the  days  that  thou  hast  left  behind, 

By  sweet  words  hallowed,  and  by  kindly  deeds ; 

And  thus  the  heart  of  sorrow  moans  and  bleeds, 
And  ever  bleeds,  and  will  not  be  resigned — 

Knowing  its  hopeless  hope  is  all  in  vain, 

To  see  thy  face  or  hear  thy  voice  again. 


184 


ARTHUR 


WHITE  sail  upon  the  ocean  verge, 
Just  crimsoned  by  the  setting  sun, 

Thou  hast  thy  port  beyond  the  surge, 
Thy  happy  homeward  course  to  run, 

And  winged  hope,  with  heart  of  fire, 

To  gain  the  bliss  of  thy  desire. 

I  watch  thee  till  the  sombre  sky 
Has  darkly  veiled  the  lucent  plain ; 

My  thoughts,  like  homeless  spirits,  fly 
Behind  thee  o'er  the  glimmering  main 

Thy  prow  will  kiss  a  golden  strand, 

But  they  can  never  come  to  land. 

And  if  they  could,  the  fanes  are  black 
Where  once  I  bent  the  reverent  knee ; 

No  shrine  could  send  an  answer  back, 
No  sacred  altar  blaze  for  me, 

No  holy  bell,  with  silver  toll, 

Declare  the  ransom  of  my  soul. 

'Tis  equal  darkness,  here  or  there ; 
For  nothing  that  this  world  can  give 
185 


Could  now  the  ravaged  past  repair, 
Or  win  the  precious  dead  to  live ! 
Life's  crumbling  ashes  quench  its  flame, 
And  every  place  is  now  the  same. 


II 


Thou  idol  of  my  constant  heart, 

Thou  child  of  perfect  love  and  light, 

That  sudden  from  my  side  didst  part, 
And  vanish  in  the  sea  of  night, 

Through  whatsoever  tempests  blow 

My  weary  soul  with  thine  would  go. 


Say,  if  thy  spirit  yet  have  speech, 
What  port  lies  hid  within  the  pall, 

What  shore  death's  gloomy  billows  reach, 
Or  if  they  reach  no  shore  at  all ! 

One  word, — one  little  word, — to  tell 

That  thou  art  safe  and  all  is  well ! 


The  anchors  of  my  earthly  fate, 

As  they  were  cast  so  must  they  cling ; 

And  naught  is  now  to  do  but  wait 

The  sweet  release  that  time  will  bring, 

When  all  these  mortal  moorings  break, 

For  one  last  voyage  I  must  make. 

186 


Say  that  across  the  shuddering  dark, 
And  whisper  that  the  hour  is  near, 

Thy  hand  will  guide  my  shattered  barque 
Till  mercy's  radiant  coasts  appear, 

Where  I  shall  clasp  thee  to  my  breast, 

And  know  once  more  the  name  of  rest. 


THE    DIFFERENCE 

BUT  yesterday  he  was  our  little  child, 

To-day  God's  angel !  and  with  bated  breath 

We  speak  of  that  sweet  spirit,  undefil'd, 
Shrin'd  in  the  awful  mystery  of  death. 


187 


RAYMOND 

His  restless  spirit,  while  on  earth  he  dwelt, 
Wreathed  with  a  smile  whatever  grief  he  felt, 
And  'twas  his  lot,  though  crowned  with  public  praise, 
Ample  and  warm,  to  walk  in  troubled  ways. 
Glad  was  his  voice,  that  all  men  loved  to  hear, 
While  few  surmised  the  pang,  the  secret  tear ; 
Yet  did  that  thrill  of  pathos  flush  the  grace 
Of  playful  humor  in  his  speaking  face, 
Inform  his  fancy  and  inspire  his  art 
To  cheer  the  senses  and  to  touch  the  heart. 
Jocund  and  droll,  incessant,  buoyant,  quaint, 
His  vigor  fired  the  forms  his  skill  could  paint, 
Till,  over-anxious  lest  effects  were  tame, 
He  left  his  picture,  to  adorn  its  frame. 
A  mind  more  serious  never  did  engage 
Through  simulated  mirth  the  comic  stage, 
Nor  strong  ambition  conquer  and  control 
A  sturdier  will  and  more  aspiring  soul. 
If  haply,  much  constrained,  his  purpose  bowed 
To  woo  the  fancy  of  the  fickle  crowd, 
Yet  did  his  judgment  spurn  the  poor  renown 
Of  shallow  jester  and  of  trivial  clown. 
A  true  comedian  this,  by  fate  designed 
To  picture  manners  and  to  cheer  mankind. 
So  RAYMOND  lived ;  and  naught  remains  to  tell, 
Save  that  too  soon  the  final  curtain  fell. 
Peace  to  his  dust,  where  love  and  honor  weep, 
In  endless  sorrow,  o'er  their  comrade's  sleep. 

188 


ANUBIS 


COULD  we  but  feel  that  our  lost  ones  are  near  us, — 

We  in  our  darkness  and  they  in  their  light, — 
Could  we  but  feel  that  they  see  us  and  hear  us, 

Ah,  what  a  splendor  would  stream  through  the  night ! 
How  this  great  world,  in  its  jubilant  madness, 

Hopeless  no  longer,  nor  vagrant  nor  blind, 
Grandly  would  blaze  through  the  heaven  of  gladness, 

Spurning  the  cloud  of  its  sorrow  behind ! 


II 


Still  soars  the  jest  to  the  echoing  rafter, 

Still  the  gay  throng  sparkles  over  the  scene, 
Still  the  sweet  air  is  a  ripple  of  laughter, 

Red  gleams  the  rose  and  the  myrtle  is  green ; 
Still  the  lights  flash  and  the  trumpet  is  sounding, 

Pennons  are  fluttered  and  banners  unfurled, — 
Where  is  the  grace  and  the  genius  abounding 

Once  that  redeemed  and  illumined  the  world  ? 

189 


Ill 

Where  are  the  hearts  that  were  tenderly  plighted, 

Long  years  ago,  in  the  kingdom  of  flowers  ? 
Where  are  the  hands  that  were  fondly  united  ? 

Where  are  the  eyes  that  looked  love  into  ours  ? 
Yesterday  was  it,  that  vainly  we  harken'd, 

Hearing  no  longer  the  one  cherished  tone? 
Yesterday  was  it,  the  heavens  were  darken'd, 

Leaving  us  stricken,  bewildered,  and  lone? 


IV 


Little  by  little  the  roof-tree  is  crumbled, 

Slow  from  the  branches  the  leaves  drop  away, 
Year  after  year  we  are  broken  and  humbled, 

Nearing  the  desolate  end  of  the  play. 
Red  in  the  west,  where  the  cloud-rack  is  scattered, 

Lowers,  defeated,  the  fugitive  sun ; 
Dreary  and  cold,  like  the  life  it  has  shattered, 

Night  covers  all,  and  our  journey  is  done. 


Is  there  no  more,  when  this  pageant  is  ended  ?  . 

Here,  where  they  slumber,  the  violet  blows ; 
Here  with  the  bird-note  divinely  are  blended 

Soul  of  the  lily  and  heart  of  the  rose ! 
What  though  the  rage  of  the  tempest  may  cover, 

White  with  its  anger,  the  shuddering  plain, — 
Soon  will  the  kiss  of  its  heavenly  lover 

Thrill  it  to  verdure  and  beauty  again. 

190 


VI 

Ah,  when  we  burst  from  this  fettered  existence, 

Born  into  freedom  and  loosed  into  space, 
How  shall  we  spurn,  at  what  infinite  distance, 

All  that  has  bound  us  in  earthly  disgrace ! 
Who  shall  conceive  what  the  soul  may  inherit ! 

Who  shall  declare  the  unspeakable  bliss, 
Regnant  and  safe,  in  that  world,  for  the  spirit 

True  to  the  right,  through  the  trials  of  this ! 


VII 


Dark  for  them,  now,  whom  we  hallow  and  honor, 

Dark  and  forlorn  is  the  stage  that  was  theirs ; 
Peace,  with  the  garment  of  silence  upon  her, 

Broods  o'er  the  dust  of  their  sorrows  and  cares. 
Low  lie  their  heads  with  the  clods  of  the  valley ; 

Never  again  will  they  come  at  our  call ; 
Vainly  around  their  cold  ashes  we  rally ; 

Quenched  are  the  lights,  and  the  curtain  must  fall. 

VIII 

Ends  not  this  world  in  the  night  of  denial ! 

Not  for  a  grave  were  illumined  the  spheres ! 
Forward  and  far  from  this  bondage  and  trial 

Love  reaps,  in  rapture,  the  harvest  of  tears. 
Only  for  us  is  the  pang  of  bereavement ; 

Theirs  the  same  mission,  yet  more  than  the  same,- 
Loftier  powers,  and  nobler  achievement 

Wrought  with  the  music  of  sweeter  acclaim ! 

191 


IX 

Labor  and  pain,  that  were  never  requited, 

Passionate  hope,  that  was  never  fulfilled, 
Dreams  and  desires,  that  were  baffled  and  blighted, 

Pure  aspirations,  defeated  and  chilled, 
Weary  vicissitude,  strife,  and  dejection, — 

Fate  gave  them  these,  till  it  gave  them  release : 
Here  the  great  heart  of  a  comrade  affection 

Gathers  them  home  to  the  bosom  of  peace. 


Hallowed  be  ever  this  dream-haunted  haven ; 

Hallowed  the  shaft  that  we  consecrate  here ! 
Never  may  ominous  pinion  of  raven 

Herald  the  spectre  oblivion  near ! 
Sentinel  roses,  bloom  faithful  and  tender ! 

Guardian  heavens,  smile  lovingly  down, — 
Clouds  in  your  sorrow,  and  stars  in  your  splendor,- 

Pouring  the  incense  of  deathless  renown  ! 


XI 


Echoes  of  blessing, — from  where,  in  our  vision, 

Hearts  never  falter  and  eyes  never  weep, — 
Blown  on  wild  winds  from  the  mountains  elysian, 

Drift,  in  sweet  requiems,  over  their  sleep  ! 
Lift  up  our  souls,  till  with  paeans  and  dirges 

Merciful  death  shall  at  last  set  us  free, — 
There,  where  the  moan  of  the  infinite  surges 

Dies  on  the  shore  of  eternity's  sea ! 

192 


SIR    PERCIVAL 


WITH  a  glimmer  of  plumes  and  a  sparkle  of  lances, 

With  blare  of  the  trumpet  and  neigh  of  the  steed, 
At  morning  they  rode  where  the  bright  river  glances, 

And  the  sweet  summer  wind  ripples  over  the  mead. 
The  green  sod  beneath  them  was  ermined  with  daisies, 

Smiling  up  to  green  boughs  tossing  wild  in  their  glee, 
While   a   thousand  glad   hearts   sang   their   honors   and 
praises, 

Where   the  knights   of  the   mountain   rode    down  to 
the  sea. 


II 


One  rode  'neath  the  banner  whose  face  was  the  fairest, 

Made  royal  with  deeds  that  his  manhood  had  done, 
And  the  halo  of  blessing  fell  richest  and  rarest 

On  his  armor  that  splintered  the  shafts  of  the  sun. 
So  moves  o'er  the  water  the  cygnet  sedately ; 

So  waits  the  strong  eagle  to  mount  on  the  wing ; 
Serene  and  puissant  and  simple  and  stately, 

So  shines  among  princes  the  form  of  the  king  !   . 

193 


Ill 

With  a  gay  bugle-note,  when  the  daylight's  last  glimmer 

Smites,  crimson  and  gold,  on  the  snow  of  his  crest, 
At  evening  he  rides,  through  the  shades  growing  dim 
mer, 

While  the  banners  of  sunset  stream  red  in  the  west. 
His  comrades  of  morning  are  scattered  and  parted, — 

The  clouds  hanging  low  and  the  winds  making  moan,— 
But,  smiling,  and  dauntless,  and  calm,  and  true-hearted, 

All  proudly  he  rides  down  the  valley,  alone. 


IV 


Sweet  gales  of  the  woodland,  embrace  and  caress  him ! 

White  wings  of  renown,  be  his  comfort  and  light ! 
Pale  dews  of  the  star-beam,  encompass  and  bless  him 

With  the  peace,  and  the  balm,  and  the  glory  of  night ! 
And,  O,  while  he  wends  to  the  verge  of  that  ocean 

Where  the  years,  like  a  garland,  shall  fall  from  his  brow, 
May  his  glad  heart  exult  in  the  tender  devotion — 

The  love  that  encircles  and  hallows  him  now ! 


194 


THE    STATUE 


How  different  now,  old  friend,  the  meeting ! 

Thy  form,  thy  face,  thy  look  the  same, — 
But  where  is  now  the  kindly  greeting, 

The  voice  of  cheer,  the  heart  of  flame  ? 
There,  in  thy  grandeur,  calm  and  splendid, — 

God's  peace  on  that  imperial  brow, — 
Thou  standest,  grief  and  trouble  ended, 

And  we  are  nothing  to  thee  now. 


II 


Yet  once  again  the  air  is  cloven 

With  joyous  tumult  of  acclaim ; 
Once  more  the  golden  wreaths  are  woven, 

Of  love  and  honor,  for  thy  name ; 
And  round  thee  here,  with  tender  longing, 

As  oft  they  did  in  days  of  old, 
The  comrades  of  thy  soul  come  thronging, 

Who  never  knew  thee  stern  or  cold. 
195 


Ill 


Why  waits,  in  frozen  silence  sleeping, 

The  smile  that  made  our  hearts  rejoice? 
Why,  dead  to  laughing  and  to  weeping, 

Is  hushed  the  music  of  thy  voice? 
By  what  strange  mood  of  reverie  haunted 

Art  thou,  the  gentle,  grown  austere  ? 
And  do  we  live  in  dreams  enchanted, 

To  know  thee  gone,  yet  think  thee  here  ? 

IV 

Ah,  fond  pretence !  ah,  sweet  beguiling ! 

Too  well  we  know  thy  course  is  run. 
There's  no  more  grief  and  no  more  smiling 

For  thee  henceforth  beneath  the  sun. 
In  manhood's  noon  thy  summons  found  thee, 

In  glory's  blaze,  on  fortune's  height, 
Trailed  the  black  robe  of  doom  around  thee, 

And  veiled  thy  radiant  face  in  night. 


This  but  the  shadow  of  a  vision 

Our  mourning  souls  alone  can  see, 
That  pierce  through  death  to  realms  elysian 

More  hallowed  now  because  of  thee. 
Yet,  O,  what  heart,  with  recollection 

Of  thy  colossal  trance  of  pain, 
Were  now  so  selfish  in  affection 

To  wish  thee  back  from  heaven  again  ! 
196 


VI 

There  must  be,  in  those  boundless  spaces 

Where  thy  great  spirit  wanders  free, 
Abodes  of  bliss,  enchanted  places, 

That  only  love's  white  angels  see ! 
And  sure,  if  heavenly  kindness  showered 

On  every  sufferer  'neath  the  sun 
Shows  any  human  spirit  dowered 

With  love  angelic,  thou  wert  one ! 

VII 

There's  no  grand  impulse,  no  revealing, 

In  all  the  glorious  world  of  art, 
There's  no  sweet  thought  or  noble  feeling 

That  throbbed  not  in  thy  manly  heart ! 
There's  no  strong  flight  of  aspiration, 

No  reverent  dream  of  realms  divine, 
No  pulse,  no  thrill,  no  proud  elation 

Of  god-like  power  that  was  not  thine ! 

VIII 

So  stand  forever,  joyless,  painless, 

Supreme  alike  o'er  smiles  and  tears, 
Thou  true  man's  image,  strong  and  stainless, 

Unchanged  through  all  the  changing  years,- 
While  fame's  blue  crystal  o'er  thee  bending 

With  honor's  gems  shall  blaze  and  burn, 
And  rose  and  lily,  round  thee  blending, 

Adorn  and  bless  thy  hallowed  urn ! 
197 


IX 

While  summer  days  are  long  and  lonely, 

While  autumn  sunshine  seems  to  weep, 
While  midnight  hours  are  bleak,  and  only 

The  stars  and  clouds  then*  vigils  keep, 
All  gentle  things  that  live  shall  moan  thee, 

All  fond  regrets  forever  wake ; 
For  earth  is  happier  having  known  thee, 

And  heaven  is  sweeter  for  thy  sake ! 


198 


MY    PALACES 

THEY  rose  in  beauty  on  the  plains 

Through  which  my  childhood  danced  in  glee, 
When  roses  wreathed  my  idle  chains, 

And  holy  angels  talked  with  me. 

They  rose  sublime  on  mountain  heights 
Whereto  my  ardent  youth  aspired, — 

Through  silver  days  and  golden  nights, 
Ere  yet  my  heart  grew  dull  and  tired. 

Their  stately  towers  were  all  aflame 

With  rosy  hues  of  morning  light ; 
For  hope,  and  love,  and  power,  and  fame 

Burned  on  their  peaks  and  made  them  bright. 

Now  brown  and  level  fields  expand 

Around  me,  as  I  hold  my  way 
Through  barren  hills  on  either  hand, 

And  under  skies  of  sober  gray. 

No  radiant  towers  in  distance  rise, 

On  soaring  mountain  strong  and  glad ; 

No  gorgeous  banners  flaunt  the  skies, — 
But  all  the  scene  is  calm  and  sad. 
199 


Yet  here  and  there,  along  the  plain, 
A  flower  lights  up  the  fading  grass ; 

And  whispering  wind  and  rustling  rain 
Make  gentle  music  as  I  pass. 

And  now  and  then  a  happy  face, 

And  now  and  then  a  cheerful  thought 

Give  to  the  scene  a  pensive  grace, 
The  sweeter  that  it  comes  unsought. 

And,  looking  past  all  earthly  ill, 
I  dimly  see  my  place  of  rest, — 

A  lowly  palace,  dark  and  still, 
And  sacred  to  the  weary  guest. 


200 


BLUE    AND    BLACK 


HERE'S  a  health  to  the  lass  with  the  merry  black  eyes  f 

Here's  a  health  to  the  lad  with  the  blue  ones ! 
Here's  a  bumper  to  love,  as  it  sparkles  and  flies, 

And  here's  joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  true  ones ! 
Yes,  joy  to  the  hearts  that  are  tender  and  true, — 

With  a  passion  that  nothing  can  smother ! 
To  the  eyes  of  the  one,  that  are  pensive  and  blue, 

And  the  merry  black  eyes  of  the  other ! 

II 

Mind  this  now,  my  lad,  with  the  sweet  eyes  of  blue, 

That,  whatever  the  graces  invite  you, 
There  is  nothing  for  you  in  this  world  that  will  do 

But  a  pair  of  black  eyes  to  delight  you : 
And  mind,  my  gay  lass,  with  the  dear  eyes  of  black, 

In  a  pair  of  blue  eyes  to  discover 
That  pure  light  of  affection  you  never  should  lack, — 

And  you'll  always  be  true  to  your  lover. 

Ill 

Long,  long  shall  your  eyes  sparkle  back  with  a  kiss 

To  the  eyes  that  live  but  to  behold  you  : 
Long,  long  shall  the  magic  of  mutual  bliss 

In  a  heaven  of  rapture  enfold  you  ! 
And  forever  to  you  shall  that  singer  be  wise, 

Whose  sweet  thought  is  the  truest  of  true  ones, — 
That  the  answering  lustre  of  merry  black  eyes 

Is  the  life  of  a  pair  of  true  blue  ones. 

201 


LAUREL 


BECAUSE  in  danger's  darkest  hour, 

When  heart  and  hope  sank  low, 
She  nerved  our  frail  and  faltering  power 

To  brave  its  mightiest  foe ; 
Because  our  fathers  smiled  to  see 

Her  golden  lilies  dance 
O'er  the  proud  field  that  made  us  free, 

We  plight  our  faith  to  France ! 

Ah,  grand  and  sweet  the  holy  bond, 

That  who  gives  all  is  blest ! 
And  love  can  give  no  pledge  beyond 

The  life  she  loves  the  best. 
That  pledge  these  hallowed  rites  declare, 

Of  choice  and  not  of  chance, 
And  he  shall  cross  the  sea  to  bear 

Our  loyal  hearts  to  France ! 

Strong,  tender,  gentle,  patient,  wise, 
Brave  soul  and  constant  mind, 

True  wit,  that  kindles  as  it  flies 
And  leaves  no  grief  behind, — 
202 


Be  thine  to  wear  the  snowy  plume 
And  poise  the  burnished  lance, — 

Our  rose  of  chivalry,  to  bloom 
Among  the  knights  of  France ! 


Be  thine  the  glorious  task  to  speed 

The  conquering  age  of  gold, 
Till  ravaged  peace  no  more  shall  bleed, 

And  history's  muse  behold, 
Borne  in  the  vanward,  fast  and  far, 

Of  the  free  world's  advance, 
Blent  with  Columbia's  bannered  star, 

The  triple  stripes  of  France ! 


II 


Dark  streamers  of  the  eastern  gale, 
Blown  far  across  the  desert  sea, 

Your  wings  have  filled  the  snowy  sail 
That  bears  my  comrade  back  to  me ! 

Through  glist'ning  surge  and  flying  foam 

Your  stormy  pinions  waft  him  home. 

Cold  waves  that  beat  the  murmuring  shore,- 
Sad  pulsing  throbs  of  ocean's  breast, — 

Your  grieving  cadence  mourns  no  more, 
Your  sobbing  requiem  dies  to  rest, — 

When  now,  by  all  fame's  banners  fanned, 

The  laurelled  wanderer  comes  to  land. 
203 


No  longer  now  our  weary  eyes 

Gaze  down  the  empty  ocean  track : 

No  more  we  muse,  with  stifled  sighs, 

On  ships  that  sailed  and  came  not  back,- 

Glad  hopes  that  flew,  on  fancy's  wing, 

When  all  the  world  was  love  and  spring. 

For  now  the  hollow  cave  of  night, 
The  silent  deep  of  time  and  space, 

Through  many  a  rift  of  diamond  light, 
Yields  up  our  argosy  of  grace ; 

And  all  sweet  airs  of  heaven  enfold 

Its  silver  sails  and  spars  of  gold. 

The  lion  heart  that  never  quailed, 
The  patient  spirit,  sweetly  wise, 

The  equal  mind,  howe'er  assailed 

By  grief  that  blights  and  time  that  tries,- 

Those  are  the  glories  that  she  bore, 

And  those  the  riches  come  to  shore. 


There  should  be  fairer  flowers  than  these, 
And  all  the  bells  of  joy  should  fling 

Their  music  on  the  perfumed  breeze, 
With  sweeter  songs  than  I  can  sing, — 

On  whose  frail  harp  the  sunset  ray 

Of  passion  long  has  died  away. 


204 


Yet  once  again  its  fragile  strings, 

Slow  trembling  to  my  trembling  touch, 

Shall  softly  wake  to  hallow  things 
So  precious  and  beloved  so  much, — 

Truth,  valor,  kindness, — all  that  blend 

To  make  the  champion  and  the  friend ! 

His  world  of  hope  be  crowned  in  this ! 

Bloom  round  him,  wheresoe'er  he  goes, 
White  lilies  of  perpetual  bliss, 

Entwined  with  honor's  fadeless  rose.' 
May  all  be  his  that  love  has  made 
Of  laurel  that  can  never  fade ! 


205 


WHAT'S    IN    A    NAME 

IN  pursuing  the  Muse  you  will  find  that  the  jade  is 
As  capricious  and  airish  as  most  other  ladies, 
And  that  superfine  cognomen,  meet  for  a  bard, 
Is  a  primal  essential  to  win  her  regard. 
Therefore  call  yourself  Clifford,  or  Aubrey,  or  Claude, 
Or  Gladys,  or  Gwendoline,  Marco,  or  Maude, 
And  being  thus  titled,  choose  all  that  is  wrong, 
And  with  that  equipment  burst  forth  into  song, — 
Making  silver-gilt  verses  on  love  pangs  and  hearses, 
Till  your  readers  believe  you  are  ravishing  Circes ; 
Whether  female  or  male  'tis  indifferent  quite, 
If  you're  only  salacious  enough  when  you  write ; 
Because,  if  you  indicate  vicious  propensity, 
Combined  with  a  longing  for  heaven's  immensity, 
You'll  be  sure  to  be  taken  for  something  sublime, 
And  they  won't  use  a  tape-measure,  testing  your  rhyme, 
But  will  load  you  with  lucre,  and  crown  you  with  bays, 
And  exhaust  a  whole  lexicon,  sounding  your  praise ; 
And  then,  if  you'll  only  contrive  to  suggest 
That  your  grandfather's  aunt  was  a  terrible  pest, 
And  that  you  have  inherited  something  from  her, 
In  the  line  of  rapacity,  talons,  and  fur, — 
Though  how  you  derived  it  no  man  can  surmise, — 
That  has  gracefully  twisted  your  brain  and  your  eyes, 

206 


And  makes  you  look  sideways  and  vacantly  stare, 

And  a  general  erection  promotes  of  your  hair, 

And  otherwise  fits  you  for  Bedlam,  or  worse, 

And  therefore  is  lovely  when  breathed  into  verse, 

The  world, — that  learns  nothing  from  things  that  have 

past, — 

Will  declare  a  great  genius  has  risen  at  last ! 
So,  choose  a  fine  name  of  the  exquisite  order, 
And  print  your  erotics  with  plenty  of  border, 
Mixing  scent  of  the  boudoir  with  reek  of  the  stable, — 
Which  is  being  fastidious,  virile,  and  able, 
Ev'ry  scruple  of  decency  rising  above, — 
Since  'twas  '  man  that  made  marriage,  but  God  that  made 

love,' — 

And  you'll  take  a  front  seat  in  the  Temple  of  Fame, 
And  illustrate  decisively  What's  in  a  Name. 


207 


OLD    DAYS    AND    LOVES 

ROSY  days  of  youth  and  fancy, 
Happy  hours  of  long  ago ! 

Ah,  the  flickering  sunbeam  visions — 
How  they  waver  to  and  fro ! 

Galaxies  of  blue-eyed  Marys, 

With  a  Julia  and  a  Jane, 
And  a  troop  of  little  Lauras, 

Blush,  and  laugh,  and  romp  again. 

Moonlight  meetings,  dreamy  rambles, 
In  the  balm  of  summer  night, 

When  our  hearts  were  full  of  rapture 
And  our  senses  of  delight ; — 

Those  remember, — and  remember 
How  the  fond  stars  shone  above, 

Keeping,  in  their  mellow  splendor, 
Watch  and  ward  upon  our  love. 

Youth  is  like  a  diamond  dawning, — 
Bold  it  breaks  to  gorgeous  day ; 

Heavenly  fires  of  power  and  beauty 
Blaze  and  burn  along  its  way. 
208 


Far  within  its  mystic  future 
Oft  are  solemn  voices  heard  ! 

Shaped  to  many  a  stately  anthem 
Floats  the  music  of  a  word. 

But  that  music,  in  the  present, 
Droops  with  passion's  dull  decay, 

Till  its  echo  in  the  spirit 

Faints  and  fails  and  dies  away. 

Green  be,  then,  the  tender  memory 

Of  the  past,  forever  sped, 
So  that  youth  may  be  immortal, 

Though  its  days  and  dreams  are  dead  ! 


209 


MY    LITTLE    CHILD 

SORE  and  sad  has  been  my  heart 

Since  I  laid  him  to  his  rest ; 
Hard,  hard  has  been  the  path 

That  my  weary  feet  have  prest ; 
But  the  path  is  shorter  now, 

And  the  end  is  growing  plain, 
And  it  won't  be  very  long 

Till  I  see  his  face  again. 


The  world  was  bright  and  glad 

When  he  walked  beside  me  here, 
And  if  e'er  a  trouble  came, 

Or  I  ever  shed  a  tear, 
He  smiled  the  cloud  away 

With  a  single  sunny  glance, 
Till  my  soul  was  full  of  joy, 

And  my  heart  began  to  dance. 


When  I  walk  alone,  at  night, 
In  the  paths  that  he  has  known, 

I  can  hear  his  little  footsteps 
Falling  softly  by  my  own, 
210 


And  his  hand  is  clasped  in  mine, 
And  his  voice  thrills  the  air, 

And  it  breaks  my  heart  afresh 
That  there's  only  shadow  there. 


But  the  trees  are  turning  brown 

And  the  sky  is  gray  and  cold, 
And  my  locks  are  silver  white 

And  my  world  and  I  are  old ; 
And  there's  silence  all  around  me, 

And  sunset  in  the  west ; 
And  it  won't  be  very  long 

Till  I  lay  me  down  to  rest. 


211 


AFTER    LONG    YEARS 

DEAR  heart,  and  true,  in  the  seasons  fled, 
Has  the  world  swept  by  me,  and  left  me  dead  ? 

Have  the  pansies  withered,  I  used  to  know  ? 
Are  the  roses  faded,  of  long  ago  ? 

Do  the  tapers  glimmer,  that  lit  the  feast  ? 

Has  the  pageant  passed  ?    Has  the  music  ceased  ? 

And,  musing  here  on  the  sea-beat  coast, 
Am  I  living  man,  or  a  wandering  ghost  ? 

Still  in  the  scent  of  the  autumn  air 
I  feel  a  rapture  that's  like  despair : 

The  starlight,  pale  on  the  sleeping  sea, 
Is  a  nameless,  sorrowful  joy  to  me : 

And,  lit  by  orb  or  crescent  of  night, 
Meadow  and  woodland  are  brave  to  sight. 

Still  I  bend  to  the  mystic  power 

Of  the  strange  sea-breeze  and  the  breath  of  flower ; 


And  the  face  of  beauty  wakes  the  wraith 
Of  holy  passion  and  knightly  faith ! 

But,  ever  I  hear  an  undertone — 
A  subtle,  sorrowful,  wordless  moan ; 

The  dying  note  of  a  funeral  bell ; 
The  faltering  sigh  of  a  last  farewell : 

And  ever  I  see,  through  lurid  haze, 
The  sombre  phantoms  of  other  days ; 

In  light  that's  sad  as  the  ruin  it  frets, — 
The  solemn  light  of  a  sun  that  sets. 

Ah,  never  now  does  youth  dream  on 

As  it  used  to  dream  in  the  summers  gone ! 

For  round  it  dashes  the  tide  of  years ; 
Its  eyes  are  darkened  with  mist  of  tears ; 

Its  hopes  are  sere  as  the  fading  grass, 
And  nothing  it  wished  has  come  to  pass. 

Yet  ever,  in  wayward,  passionate  power, 

Like  a  wind  that  moans  through  a  ruined  tower, 

O'er  memory's  darkening  fields  along 
It  rustles  the  fallen  leaves  of  song : 

And,  wild  in  the  heart,  it  wakes  the  thrill 
That  nothing  but  death  can  ever  still ! 

213 


IN    MEMORY    OF    WILKIE    COLLINS 


OFTEN  and  often,  when  the  days  were  dark 
And,  whether  to  remember  or  behold, 
Life  was  a  burden,  and  my  heart,  grown  old 

With  sorrow,  scarce  was  conscious,  did  I  mark 
How,  from  thy  distant  place  across  the  sea, 
Vibrant  with  hope  and  with  emotion  free, 

Thy  voice  of  cheer  rose  like  the  morning  lark, — 
And  that  was  comfort  if  not  joy  to  me  ! 

For  in  the  weakness  of  our  human  grief 

The  mind  that  does  not  break  and  will  not  bend 
Teaches  endurance  as  the  one  true  friend, 

The  steadfast  anchor  and  the  sure  relief. 

That  was  thy  word,  and  what  thy  precept  taught 
Thy  life  made  regnant  in  one  living  thought. 

II 

Thy  vision  saw  the  halo  of  romance 

Round  every  common  thing  that  men  behold. 
Thy  lucid  art  could  turn  to  precious  gold, — 
Like  roseate  motes  that  in  the  sunbeams  dance, — 
Whatever  object  met  thy  kindling  glance; 
And  in  that  mirror  life  was  never  cold. 
214 


A  gracious  warmth  suffused  thy  sparkling  page, 
And  woman's  passionate  heart  by  thee  was  drawn, 
With  all  the  glorious  colors  of  the  dawn, 
Against  the  background  of  this  pagan  age, — 
Her  need  of  love,  her  sacrifice,  her  trance 
Of  patient  pain,  her  weary  pilgrimage ! 
Thou  knewest  all  of  grief  that  can  be  known, 
And  didst  portray  all  sorrows  but  thine  own. 

Ill 

Where  shall  I  turn,  now  that  thy  lips  are  dumb, 

And  night  is  on  those  eyes  that  loved  me  well  ? 

What  other  voice,  across  thy  dying  knell, 
With  like  triumphant  notes  of  power  will  come  ? 
Alas  !  my  ravaged  heart  is  still  and  numb 

With  thinking  of  the  blank  that  must  remain  ! 

Yet  be  it  mine,  amid  these  wastes  of  pain, 
Where  all  must  falter  and  where  many  sink, 
To  stay  the  foot  of  misery  on  the  brink 

Of  dark  despair,  to  bid  blind  sorrow  see, — 
Teaching  that  human  will  breaks  every  chain 

When  once  endurance  sets  the  spirit  free ; 
And,  living  thus  thy  perfect  faith,  to  think 

I  am  to  others  what  thou  wert  to  me ! 


215 


HEAVEN'S    HOUR 

CAN  I  forget  ? — no,  never  while  my  soul 

Lives  to  remember !  that  imperial  night 

When  through  the  spectral  church  I  heard  them  roll, 

Those  organ  tones  of  glory,  and  my  sight 

Grew  dim  with  tears,  while  ever  new  delight 

Throbbed  in  my  heart,  and  through  the  shadowy  dread 

The  pale  ghosts  wandered,  and  a  deathly  chill 

Froze  all  my  being, — the  mysterious  thrill 

That  tells  the  awful  presence  of  the  dead ! 

Yet  not  the  dead,  but,  strayed  from  heavenly  bowers, 

Pure  souls  that  live  with  other  life  than  ours : 

For  sure  I  am  that  ecstasy  of  sound 

Lured  one  sweet  spirit  from  his  holy  ground, 

Who  dwells  in  the  perpetual  land  of  flowers. 


216 


THE  VICTOR 

FREED  from  the  strife  of  this  world,  and  the  scorn  of  it, 

Sweetly  he  sleeps  on  the  emerald  plain  ! 
Never  ambition,  nor  sorrow  that's  born  of  it, — 

Sceptre  or  cross, — can  afflict  him  again  ! 
All  that  he  lived  for  was  truth  and  the  fight  for  it ; 

Now  all  his  battles  are  over  and  done. 
Death  gives  him  slumber,  at  last,  and  the  night  for  it, — 

Trials  all  ended  and  victory  won ! 

They  that  reviled  him  may  mourn  to  recover  him, — 

Knowing  how  gentle  he  was,  and  how  brave ! 
Nothing  he'll  reck,  where  the  wind  blowing  over  him 

Ripples  the  grasses  that  dream  on  his  grave ! 
Though  to  our  vision  this  dust  be  the  last  of  him, 

Low  in  the  ground  and  deserted  and  lone, 
Time  will  avenge  all  the  woe  that  is  past  of  him, 

Fate  will  remember  and  justice  atone. 

After  the  fray  and  the  heart-breaking  pain  of  it, 

Aliened  affection  and  honor  betrayed, 
Here  is  the  end,  and  the  crown,  and  the  gain  of  it, — 

Cold  in  the  earth  where  the  victor  is  laid. 
Stars  will  watch  over  him,  silence  lament  for  him, 

Soft  woodland  whispers  re-echo  his  knell, — 
Bird-note  and  leaf-murmur  tenderly  blent  for  him, — 

Comrade,  and  brother,  and  friend,  Fare  thee  well ! 


217 


FLORENCE 

BY  Virtue  cherished,  by  Affection  mourned, 
By  Honor  hallowed,  and  by  Fame  adorned, 
Here  FLORENCE  sleeps,  and  o'er  his  sacred  rest 
Each  word  is  tender  and  each  thought  is  blest. 
Long,  for  his  loss,  shall  pensive  Mem'ry  show 
Through  Humor's  mask,  the  visage  of  her  woe, 
Day  breathe  a  darkness  that  no  sun  dispels, 
And  night  be  full  of  whispers  and  farewells ; 
While  patient  Kindness,  shadow-like  and  dim, 
Droops  in  its  loneliness,  bereft  of  him, 
Feels  its  sad  doom  and  sure  decadence  nigh, — 
For  how  should  Kindness  live,  when  he  could  die ! 

The  eager  heart,  that  felt  for  every  grief, 

The  bounteous  hand,  that  loved  to  give  relief, 

The  honest  smile,  that  blessed  where'er  it  lit, 

The  dew  of  pathos  and  the  sheen  of  wit, 

The  sweet  blue  eyes,  the  voice  of  melting  tone 

That  made  all  hearts  as  gentle  as  his  own ; 

The  Actor's  charm,  supreme  in  royal  thrall, 

That  ranged  through  every  field  and  shone  in  all, — 

For  these  must  Sorrow  make  perpetual  moan, 

Bereaved,  benighted,  hopeless,  and  alone? 

Ah,  no :   for  Nature  does  no  act  amiss, 

And  heaven  were  lonely  but  for  souls  like  this. 


218 


RUPERT 


ALL  the  flowers  were  in  their  pride 
On  the  day  when  Rupert  died. 

Dreamily,  through  dozing  trees, 
Sighed  the  idle  summer  breeze. 

Wild  birds,  glancing  in  the  air, 
Spilled  their  music  everywhere. 

Not  one  sign  of  mortal  ill 

Told  that  his  great  heart  was  still. 

Now  the  grass  he  loved  to  tread 
Murmurs  softly  o'er  his  head  : 

Now  the  great  green  branches  wave 
High  above  his  lonely  grave  : 

While,  in  grief's  perpetual  speech, 
Roll  the  breakers  on  the  beach. 
219 


Oh,  my  comrade,  oh,  my  friend, 
Must  this  parting  be  the  end? 


II 


Weave  the  shroud  and  spread  the  pall ! 
Night  and  silence  cover  all. 

Howsoever  we  deplore, 
They  who  go  return  no  more. 

Never  from  that  unknown  track 
Floats  one  answering  whisper  back. 

Nature,  vacant,  will  not  heed 

Lips  that  grieve  or  hearts  that  bleed. 

Wherefore  now  should  mourning  word 
Or  the  tearful  dirge  be  heard  ? 

How  shall  words  our  grief  abate? — 
Call  him  noble ;  call  him  great ; 

Say  that  faith,  now  gaunt  and  grim, 
Once  was  fair  because  of  him ; 

Say  that  goodness,  round  his  way, 
Made  one  everlasting  day ; 
220 


Say  that  beauty's  heavenly  flame 
Bourgeoned  wheresoe'er  he  came  ; 

Say  that  all  life's  common  ways 
Were  made  glorious  in  his  gaze ; 

Say  he  gave  us,  hour  by  hour, 

Hope  and  patience,  grace  and  power ; 

Say  his  spirit  was  so  true 
That  it  made  us  noble,  too ; — 

What  is  this,  but  to  declare 
Love's  bereavement  and  despair? 

What  is  this,  but  just  to  say 
All  we  loved  is  torn  away  ? 

Weave  the  shroud  and  spread  the  pall ! 
Night  and  silence  cover  all. 


Ill 

Oh,  my  comrade,  oh,  my  friend, 
Must  this  parting  be  the  end  ? 

Heart  and  hope  are  growing  old : 
Dark  the  night  comes  down,  and  cold 


Few  the  souls  that  answer  mine, 
And  no  voice  so  sweet  as  thine. 

Desert  wastes  of  care  remain — 
Yet  thy  lips  speak  not  again  ! 

Gray  eternities  of  space — 
Yet  nowhere  thy  living  face ! 

Only  now  the  lonesome  blight, 
Heavy  day  and  haunted  night. 

All  the  light  and  music  reft — 
Only  thought  and  memory  left ! 


IV 


Peace,  fond  mourner  !     This  thy  boon,- 
Thou  thyself  must  follow  soon. 

Peace, — and  let  repining  go  ! 
Peace, — for  Fate  will  have  it  so. 

Vainly  now  his  praise  is  said : 
Vain  the  garland  for  his  head : 

Yet  is  comfort's  shadow  cast 
From  the  kindness  of  the  past. 

222 


All  my  love  could  do  to  cheer 
Warmed  his  heart  when  he  was  here. 

Honor's  plaudit,  Friendship's  vow 
Did  not  coldly  wait  till  now. 

Oh,  my  comrade,  oh,  my  friend, 
If  this  parting  be  the  end, 

Yet  I  hold  my  life  divine, 

To  have  known  a  soul  like  thine : 

And  I  hush  the  low  lament 
In  submission,  penitent. 

Still  the  sun  is  in  the  skies  : 

He  sets — but  I  have  seen  him  rise ! 


AN    EMPTY    HEART 

WELL,  since  our  lot  must  be  to  part 

(These  lots — how  they  do  push  and  pull  one  ! ) 
I  send  you  here  an  empty  heart, 

But  send  it  from  a  very  full  one. 
My  little  hour  of  joy  is  done, 

But  every  vain  regret  I  smother, 
With  murm'ring,  'When  you  see  the  one, 

Think  kindly  sometimes  of  the  other.' 


This  heart  must  always  do  your  will, 

This  heart  your  maid  can  fetch  and  carry, 
This  heart  will  faithful  be,  and  still 

Will  not  importune  you  to  marry. 
That  other,  craving  hosts  of  things, 

Would  throb  and  flutter,  every  minute ; 
But  this,  except  it  hold  your  rings, 

Will  mutely  wait,  with  nothing  in  it. 


Oh,  happy  heart !  that  finds  its  bliss 
In  pure  affection  consecrated  ! 

But  happier  far  the  heart,  like  this, 
That  heeds  not  whether  lone  or  mated 


224 


That  stands  unmoved  in  beauty's  eyes, 
That  knows  not  if  you  leave  or  take  it, 

That  is  not  hurt  though  you  despise, 

And  quite  unconscious  when  you  break  it. 

That  other  heart  would  burn  and  freeze, 

And  plague,  and  hamper,  and  perplex  you. 
But  this  will  always  stand  at  ease, 

And  never  pet  and  never  vex  you. 
Go,  empty  heart !  and  if  she  lift 

Your  little  lid  this  prayer  deliver : — 
'Ah,  look  with  kindness  on  the  gift, 

And  think  with  kindness  on  the  giver.' 


REMEMBER 

WHEN  shuts  the  rose,  when  the  long  gloaming  dies 
And  stars  come  out,  and,  under  spectral  skies, 
The  great  elms  nod  and  murmur,  should  there  be, 
Perchance,  in  thy  sweet  thoughts,  one  thought  of  me, 
Say  to  thy  listening  heart, — 'He  was  my  friend  : 
He  lov'd  me,  and  was  faithful  to  the  end.' 


225 


IONA 


SHRINED  among  their  crystal  seas, 
Thus  I  saw  the  Hebrides  : 

All  the  land  with  verdure  dight ; 
All  the  heavens  flushed  with  light ; 

Purple  jewels  'neath  the  tide ; 
Hill  and  meadow  glorified  ; 

Beasts  at  ease  and  birds  in  air ; 
Life  and  beauty  everywhere ! 

Shrined  amid  their  crystal  seas, — 
Thus  I  saw  the  Hebrides. 


II 


Fading  in  the  sunset  smile, — 
Thus  I  left  the  Holy  Isle ; 

Saw  it  slowly  fade  away, 
Through  the  mist  of  parting  day ; 
226 


Saw  its  ruins,  grim  and  old, 
And  its  bastions,  bathed  in  gold ; 

Rifted  crag  and  snowy  beach, 

Where  the  seagulls  swoop  and  screech, 

Vanish,  and  the  shadows  fall, 
To  the  lonely  curlew's  call. 

Fading  in  the  sunset  smile, — 
Thus  I  left  the  Holy  Isle. 

Ill 

As  Columba,  old  and  ill, 
Mounted  on  the  sacred  hill, 

Raising  hands  of  faith  and  prayer, 
Breathed  his  benediction  there, 

Stricken  with  its  solemn  grace — 
Thus  my  spirit  blessed  the  place  : 

O'er  it  while  the  ages  range, 

Time  be  blind  and  work  no  change ! 

On  its  plenty  be  increase ! 
On  its  homes  perpetual  peace ! 

While  around  its  lonely  shore 
Wild  winds  rave  and  breakers  roar, 

227 


Round  its  blazing  hearths  be  blent 
Virtue,  comfort,  and  content ! 

On  its  beauty,  passing  all, 

Ne'er  may  blight  nor  shadow  fall ! 

Ne'er  may  vandal  foot  intrude 
On  its  sacred  solitude ! 

May  its  ancient  fame  remain 
Glorious,  and  without  a  stain  ! 

And  the  hope  that  ne'er  departs, 
Live  within  its  loving  hearts ! 

IV 

Slowly  fades  the  sunset  light, 
Slowly  round  me  falls  the  night. 

Gone  the  Isle,  and  distant  far 
All  its  loves  and  glories  are : 

Yet  forever,  in  my  mind, 

Still  will  sigh  the  wand'ring  wind, 

And  the  music  of  the  seas, 
'Mid  the  lonely  Hebrides. 


228 


TRIBUTE    TO    JEFFERSON 

THE    songs    that    should    greet   him   are   songs   of    the 

mountain, 

No  sigh  of  the  pine-tree  that  murmurs  and  grieves, 
But    the    music    of    streams    rushing    swift    from    their 

fountain, 

And  the  soft  gale  of  spring  through  the  sun-spangled 
leaves. 

In  the  depth  of  the  forest  it  woke  from  its  slumbers, — 
His  genius  that  holds  ev'ry  heart  in  its  thrall ! 

Beside  the  bright  torrent  he  learned  his  first  numbers, — 
The  thrush's  sweet  cadence,  the  meadow-lark's  call. 

O'er  his  cradle  kind  Nature, — that  Mother  enchanted 
Of  Beauty  and  Art, — cast  her  mantle  of  grace ; 

In  his  eyes  lit  her  passion,  and  deeply  implanted 

In  his  heart  her  strong  love  of  the  whole  human  race. 

Like  the  rainbow   that   pierces    the   clouds    where   they 

darken, 

He  came,  ev'ry  sorrow  and  care  to  beguile ; 
He  spoke, — and  the  busy  throng  halted  to  hearken  ; 
He  smiled, — and  the  world  answered  back  with  a  smile. 

229 


Like  the  sunburst  of  April,  with  mist  drifting  after, 
When  in  shy,  woodland  places  the  daisy  uprears, 

He  blessed  ev'ry  spirit  with  innocent  laughter, — 
The  more  precious  because  it  was  mingled  with  tears. 

Like  the  rose  by  the  wayside,  so  simple  and  tender, 
His  art  was, — to  win  us  because  he  was  true  : 

We  thought  not  of  greatness,  or  wisdom,  or  splendor — 
We  loved  him,  and  that  was  the  whole  that  we  knew  ! 

He  would  heed  the  glad  voice  of  the  summer  leaves  shaken 
By  the  gay  wind  of  morning  that  sports  through  the 
trees ! 

Ah,  how  shall  we  bid  that  wild  music  awaken, 

And  thrill  to  his  heart,  with  such  accents  as  these? 

How  utter  the  honor  and  love  that  we  bear  him, — 
The  High  Priest  of  Nature,  the  Master  confest, — 

How  proudly,  yet  humbly,  revere,  and  declare  him 
The  Prince  of  his  Order,  the  brightest  and  best ! 

Ah,  vain  are  all  words !  But,  as  long  as  life's  river 
Through  sunshine  and  shadow  rolls  down  to  the  sea ; 

While  the  waves  dash  in  music  forever  and  ever ; 
While  clouds  drift  in  glory,  and  sea-birds  are  free ; 

So  long  shall  the  light,  and  the  bloom,  and  the  gladness 
Of  Nature's  great  heart  his  ordainment  proclaim, 

And  its  one  tender  thought  of  bereavement  and  sadness 
Be  the  sunset  of  time  over  JEFFERSON'S  fame. 

230 


A    BRIDAL    RHYME 

LOVE  bids  me  twine 

These  flowers  of  mine, 
And,  joyful  in  a  joyful  duty, 

I  hail  your  May, 

Your  golden  day, 
Your  morn  of  sweetness,  strength,  and  beauty ! 

And  not  alone, 

In  gentle  tone, 
A  careless  grace  of  thought  revealing, 

I  bid  my  heart 

To  yours  impart 
Its  deepest  truth  of  sacred  feeling. 

Since  Heaven  doth  bless 

The  tenderness 
Of  hearts  that  truly  love  each  other ; 

Since  every  year 

Doth  more  endear 
The  heavenly  names  of  wife  and  mother ; 

Since  angels  charm 

Their  way  from  harm 
Whose  thoughts  are  gentle,  pure,  and  lowly ; 

To  you,  I  know, 

Life  must  come  so 
As  only  to  be  sweet  and  holy. 
231 


And  so  I  twine 

These  flowers  of  mine 
With  glad  belief  that  Love  will  guide  you 

In  cheerful  ways, 

Through  happy  days, 
With  calm  content  to  dwell  beside  you  : 

With  strength  to  bear 

Your  earthly  care, 
'Neath  stars  of  joy,  serene  and  tender ; 

With  hope,  the  prize 

Of  Paradise, 
To  fold  you  in  its  fadeless  splendor. 


WITH  A  CASKET 

SEEMING  empty  to  the  eye, 
Yet  within  this  magic  space, 
Mantled  all  in  golden  grace, 

Many  costly  gems  do  lie. 

Like  the  blessings  angels  shed 
From  the  wafture  of  their  wings 
Are  these  ghosts  of  lovely  things,- 

Love,  and  hope,  and  pleasure  dead. 

Guard  these  treasures  of  the  Past ! 
Soon  the  shadows  dim  the  day : 
All  the  world  will  pass  away, — 

These  alone  remain  at  last. 


232 


LINES    TO    A    GHOST 

IT  was  thy  book;  it  now  is  mine: 

But  presently  I  must  resign 

My  book, — so  cherished, — and  become 

As  thou  art,  blind,  and  deaf,  and  dumb, 

A  Stranger ;  and  my  book  will  go, 

The  Lord  knows  where !     But  this  /  know- 

Where'er  it  goes,  it  ne'er  will  be 

More  lov'd  and  priz'd  than  'tis  by  me : 

For  COWLEY,  with  his  fancies  queer, 

His  learning  ripe,  his  taste  severe, 

His  spirit  reverent,  and  his  mind 

To  rural  solitude  inclin'd, — 

To  ancient  lore,  to  sacred  themes, 

To  knightly  deeds  and  mystic  dreams, — 

Has  shone  upon  me,  like  a  star, 

And  sweetly  lur'd  and  led  me  far ; — 

So  that,  forgetting  now  and  here, 

And  troubles  rife  and  feelings  sere, 

I've  heard  the  songs  of  angels,  blent 

With  echoes  from  his  fields  of  Kent. — 

Things  own'd  are  mere  Oblivion's  dues : 

Things  lov'd  the  soul  can  never  lose ! 


233 


ELEGY    FOR    BROMLEY 

THE  dirge  is  sung,  the  ritual  said, 
No  more  the  brooding  organ  weeps, 

And,  cool  and  green,  the  turf  is  spread 
On  that  lone  grave  where  BROMLEY  sleeps. 

Gone, — in  his  ripe,  meridian  hour ! 

Gone, — when  the  wave  was  at  its  crest! 
And  wayward  Humor's  perfect  flower 

Is  turned  to  darkness  and  to  rest. 

No  more  those  honest  eyes  will  beam 

With  torrid  light  of  proud  desire ; 
No  more  those  fluent  lips  will  teem 

With  Wit's  gay  quip  or  Passion's  fire. 

Forever  gone  !     And  with  him  fade 

The  dreams  that  Youth  and  Friendship  know, 
The  frolic  and  the  glee  that  made 

The  golden  time  of  Long  Ago. 

The  golden  time  !    Ah,  many  a  face, — 
And  his  the  merriest  of  them  all, — 

That  made  this  world  so  sweet  a  place, 
Is  cold  and  still,  beneath  the  pall. 
234 


His  was  the  heart  that  over-much 
In  human  goodness  puts  its  trust, 

And  his  the  keen,  satiric  touch 
That  shrivels  falsehood  into  dust. 

His  love  was  like  the  liberal  air, — 
Embracing  all,  to  cheer  and  bless ; 

And  ev'ry  grief  that  mortals  share 
Found  pity  in  his  tenderness. 

His  subtle  vision  deeply  saw, 

Through  piteous  webs  of  human  fate, 
The  motion  of  the  sov'reign  law, 

On  which  all  tides  of  being  wait. 

No  sad  recluse,  no  lettered  drone, 
His  mirthful  spirit,  blithely  pour'd, 

In  many  a  crescent  frolic  shone, — 
The  light  of  many  a  festal  board. 

No  pompous  pedant,  did  he  feign 
With  dull  conceit  of  Learning's  store; 

But  not  for  him  were  writ  in  vain 

The  statesman's  craft,  the  scholar's  lore. 

Fierce  for  the  right,  he  bore  his  part 
In  strife  with  many  a  valiant  foe ; 

But  Laughter  wing'd  his  polish'd  dart, 
And  Kindness  temper'd  ev'ry  blow. 
235 


No  selfish  purpose  mark'd  his  way ; 

Still  for  the  common  good  he  wrought, 
And  still  enrich'd  the  passing  day 

With  sheen  of  wit  and  sheaves  of  thought 

Shrine  him,  New  England,  in  thy  breast ! 

With  wild-flowers  grace  his  hallow'd  bed, 
And  guard  with  love  his  laurell'd  rest, 

Forever,  with  thy  holiest  dead  ! 

For  not  in  all  the  teeming  years 
Of  thy  long  glory  hast  thou  known 

A  being  fram'd  of  smiles  and  tears, 
Humor  and  force  so  like  thine  own ! 

And  never  did  thy  asters  gleam, 

Or  through  thy  pines  the  night-wind  roll, 

To  soothe,  in  death's  transcendent  dream, 
A  sweeter  or  a  nobler  soul ! 


ELSIE 

I  KNOW  not  if  thy  charm  it  be, 

Or  Nature's  charm,  reveal'd  in  thee ; 

Whether  thy  face,  as  now  I  view  it, 

Is  thine, — or  hers  that's  shining  through  it : 

But  this  I  know — whate'er  the  art 

That  wins  me,  thou  hast  won  my  heart ! 

And  therefore,  though  my  old  guitar 

Has  strings  that  were, — not  strings  that  are,- 

Once  more,  ere  yet  its  tune  be  spent, 

I  touch  that  ancient  instrument, — 

In  praise  of  truth  and  beauty  blent ! 

Through  the  red  glare,  the  scorching  light, 
The  din,  the  havoc,  and  the  blight 
Of  clamorous  wrath  and  hideous  haste, 
That  make  this  life  one  dreary  waste, 
Thy  voice,  of  Music's  soul  complete, 
Is  ever  tender,  low,  and  sweet, — 
To  make  the  frantic  tumult  cease, 
And  bless  me  with  the  balm  of  peace ! 
And  so  for  thee  I  breathe  a  sigh ; 
For  this  I  love  thee, — far  or  nigh, — 
Or  else,  or  else — I  know  not  why ! 


237 


MONODY  FOR  AUGUSTXN  DALY 

LONG  he  slumbers :  will  he  waken,  greeting,  as  he  used 

to  do, 
With  his  kindly,  playful  smile,  his  old  companions,  me 

and  you  ? 

Long  he  slumbers, — though  the  wind  of  morning  sweetly 

blows  to  sea, 
Though  his  barque  has  weighed  her  anchor,  and  the  tide 

is  flowing  free. 

Long  he  slumbers :   why,  so  helpless,  doth  he  falter  on 

the  shore  ? 
Wherefore  stays  he  in  the  silence,  he  that  never  stayed 

before  ? 

'Do  not  wake  me!'   Oh,  the  pity  !     How  shall  we,  poor 

toilers,  strive, 
If  his  strong  and   steadfast  spirit    keep    not    our   frail 

hope  alive? 

All   his    days   were   given  to  action,  all  his  powers  of 

mind  and  will : 
Now  the  restless  heart  is  silent,  and  the  busy  brain  is  still. 

238 


Gone  the  fine  ideal  fancies,  glorious,  like  the  summer 
dawn  ! 

Ev'ry  passionate  throb  of  purpose,  ev'ry  dream  of  gran 
deur  gone ! 

Courage,  patience,  deep  devotion,  long  endurance,  manly 

trust, 
Zeal  for  truth,  and  love  for  beauty, — gone,  and  buried 

in  the  dust ! 

Ah,  what  pictures  rise  in  mem'ry,  and  what  strains  of 

music  flow, 
When   we  think  of   all  the  magic  times  and  scenes  of 

Long  Ago ! 

When  once  more  we  hear,  in  Arden,  rustling  trees  and 
rippling  streams ; 

When  on  fair  Olivia's  palace  faint  and  pale  the  moon 
light  beams; 

When  the  storm-clouds  break  and  scatter,  and  o'er  beach, 

and  crag,  and  wave 
Angels  float,  and  heavenly  voices  haunt  the  gloom  of 

Prosp'ro's  cave ! 

Well  he  wrought — and  we  remember  !     Faded  rainbow  ! 

Fallen  leaf ! 
All  fair  things  are  but  as  shadows,  and  all  glory  ends  in 

grief. 

239 


Worn  and  weary  with  the  struggle,  broken  with  the  weight 

of  care, 
Low  he  lies,  and  all  his  pageants  vanish  in  the  empty  air. 

Nevermore  can  such  things  lure  us,  nevermore  be  quite 

the  same : 
Other  hands  may  grasp  the  laurel,  other  brows  be  twined 

with  fame. 

Far,  and  less'ning  in  the  distance,  dies  the  music  of  the 

Past; 
In  our  ears  a  note  discordant  vibrates  like  an  angry  blast ; 

On  our  eyes  the  Future  rushes,    blatant,  acrid,  fraught 

with  strife, 
Arrogant   with   tinsell'd   youth,   and   rank  with   flux  of 

sensual  life. 

Naught   avails   to   stem   the   tumult, — vulgar    aims   and 

commonplace, 
Greed,  and  vice,  and  dross,    and  folly,  frenzied  in  the 

frantic  race. 

Naught  avails,  and  we  that  linger,  sick  at  heart  and  old 
and  grim, 

Can  but  pray  to  leave  this  rabble,  loving  Art  and  follow 
ing  him. 

Very  lonely  seems  the  pathway ;  long  we  journey'd  side 

by  side ; 
Much  with  kindred  hope  were  solac'd,  much  with  kindred 

anguish  tried ; 

240 


Had  our  transient  jars  and  murmurs,  had  our  purpose 

to  be  blest, 
In  our  brotherhood  of  travel,  in  our  dreams  of  age  and 

rest, — 

Yonder,  where  the  tinted  hawthorns  scarlet  poppy  fields 

enfold, 
And  the  prodigal  laburnum  blooms  in  clust'ring  globes 

of  gold. 

Ended  all ! — and  all  is  shadow,  where  but  late  a  glory 

shone, 
And  the  wanderer,  gray  and  fragile,  walks  the  vacant 

scene,  alone. 

Only   now  the  phantom   faces  that  in  waking   dreams 

appear ! 
Only  now  the  serial  voices  that  the  heart  alone  can  hear ! 

Round  and  red  the  sun  is  sinking,  lurid  in  his  misty 
light 

Faintly  sighs  the  wind  of  evening,  coldly  falls  the  brood 
ing  night. 

Fare  thee  well, — forever  parted,  speeding  onward  in  the 

day 
Where,  through  God's  supernal  mercy,  human  frailties 

drop  away ! 

Fare  thee  well ;    while   o'er    thy    ashes    softly   tolls    the 

funeral  knell, — 
Peace,  and  love,  and  tender  memory !     So,  forever,  fare 

thee  well ! 

241 


CORONAL    FOR    STEDMAN 

COMRADE  and  friend  !  what  tribute  shall  I  render  ? 

Roses  and  lilies  bloom  no  more  for  me, 
And  naught  remains,  of  Fancy's  squandered  splendor, 

Save  marish  flowers  that  fringe  a  sombre  sea. 

But  were  each  word  a  rose,  each  thought  a  blessing, 

Each  prayer  a  coronal  of  gems  divine, 
Honor,  and  love,  and  perfect  trust  confessing, 

My  words,  my  thoughts,  my  prayers  should  all  be 
thine. 

For  thou  hast  kept  the  faith  :  thy  soul  undaunted, 
Whatever  storms  might  round  thee  rage  and  roll, 

By  one  celestial  passion  still  enchanted, 

Has  held  its  course  right  onward  to  its  goal. 

No  sordid  aim,  no  worldly  greed,  beguiling, 
Could  ever  wile  thy  constant  heart  astray ; 

No  vine  clad,  Circean,  Cyprian  Muses  smiling, 
Allure  thy  footsteps  down  the  primrose  way. 

Thou  hast  not  basely  gathered  thrift  with  fawning, 
Nor  worn  a  laurel  that  thou  hast  not  won ; 

But,  in  thy  zenith  hour  as  in  thy  dawning, 

The  good  thy  nature  willed  thy  hand  has  done. 

242 


On  thy  calm  front  the  waves  of  trouble,  broken, 
Have  backward  surged  and  left  thee  regnant  still ; 

Nor  tempests  of  the  soul,  nor  griefs  unspoken, 
Have  e'er  had  power  to  shake  thy  steadfast  will. 

Thy  glory  cannot  wane — for,  were  thy  singing 

Stilled  at  its  source,  through  all  the  domes  of  fame, 

In  one  great  organ  burst,  superbly  ringing, 

The  whole  poetic  choir  would  chant  thy  name ! 

Thy  soul  is  music :  from  its  deeps  o'erflowing, — 
With  the  glad  freedom  of  the  wild-bird's  wing, 

Where  icy  gales  o'er  sunlit  seas  are  blowing, — 
It  sings  because  divinely  born  to  sing. 

No  stain  is  on  thy  banner :  grandly  streaming, 
Its  diamond  whiteness  leads  the  tuneful  host, 

Forever  in  the  front  of  honor  beaming, 

And  they  that  know  thee  best  must  love  thee  most. 

So  rest :  thy  regal  throne  thou  hast  ascended  : 

The  standards  blaze,  the  golden  trumpets  ring, 
And  in  one  voice  our  loval  hearts  are  blended — 

t/ 

God  bless  the  Poet,  and  God  save  the  King ! 


243 


THE    CORNER    STONE 

No  act  in  Beauty's  service  done, 

With  homage  of  the  heart  and  brain 

For  all  fair  things  beneath  the  sun, 
Was  ever  done  in  vain. 

The  humblest  deed,  the  lightest  word, 

Accordant  to  divine  behest, 
In  Heaven's  high  temple  seen  and  heard, 

Is  sanctified  and  blest. 

Not  for  mechanic  use  alone, — 
The  arid  toil  of  weary  days, — 

Is  meant  the  consecrated  stone 
That  proudly  here  we  raise. 

Broad  based  on  truth  we  rear  this  fane, 
The  eternal  heart,  the  eternal  mind, 

Whereby  love,  hope,  and  wisdom  reign, 
And  peace  for  all  mankind. 

Here  Justice,  with  her  even  scale 

And  blinded  orbs,  shall,  sacred,  stand, 

With  iron  force  and  mercy  frail, 
Attent,  on  either  hand. 
244 


Here,  glorious  in  the  blaze  of  day, 
Shall  Order's  radiant  fountain  rise, 

O'er  which  the  blissful  lights  that  play 
Are  lights  of  Paradise. 

Here  Power  supreme,  the  people's  will, 
More  potent  than  the  despot's  nod, 

Shall,  throned  in  majesty,  fulfil 
The  awful  will  of  God. 

And  long  as  through  morn's  silver  haze 
Our  golden  isle  of  beauty  gleams, 

Or,  softly  fair  in  sunset  rays, 
Fades  to  a  land  of  dreams ; 

And  long  as  Ocean's  organ  voice 
The  music  of  the  surge  shall  pour 

In  waves  of  rapture  that  rejoice 
To  clasp  our  emerald  shore; 

So  long  this  symbol  shall  endure, — 
In  honor  reared  and  humble  awe, — 

And  show  our  favor'd  realm  secure 
In  liberty  and  law. 


245 


THE    SCEPTRE 

THE  dark'ning  shadows  eastward  slope, 
And  Evening,  with  her  dewy  urn, 

Quenches  the  beacon  orb  of  Hope, 
To  let  the  stars  of  Patience  burn. 

The  paths  grow  dim,  the  low  winds  sigh, 
The  fluttering  bird-notes  faint  and  fail, 

And  slowly  up  the  sombre  sky 

The  sad  moon  wanders,  cold  and  pale. 

Yet  on,  for  many  a  weary  mile, 

Our  pilgrim  marches  still  must  wend, 

Through  brier  and  flood,  by  lane  and  stile, 
Before  we  reach  our  journey's  end. 

What  word  will  cheer  the  jaded  nerve  ? 

What  thought  inspire,  as  on  we  fare, 
The  baffled  mind,  so  prone  to  swerve 

Beneath  the  leaden  wings  of  care? 

Ah,  Nature,  when  she  made  her  toy, — 
This  wayward  child  of  fire  and  clay, 

The  sport  of  every  fickle  joy 

That  ripples  through  his  fleeting  day, — 
246 


Gave  him  a  fancy  swift  to  breed 
Delusive  dreams  for  every  hour, — 

Sirens  that  beckon  and  recede, 

And  phantom  moods  of  bliss  and  power. 

Some  from  the  stars  and  flowers  distil 
The  faith  that  these  not  vainly  shine, — 

That  whispering  wood,  and  rock-crowned  hill, 
And  murmuring  stream  are  all  divine. 

Some  for  a  vanished  love  bewail, — 
Her  eyes,  the  starry  orbs  of  fate, 

And  voice,  more  rich  than  summer  gale, 
That  make  the  heaven  in  which  they  wait. 

Some,  self-enamored,  seem  so  dear, 
So  sacred  in  their  own  kind  eyes, 

They  cannot  doubt  what  blossoms  here 
Must  bloom  again  in  Paradise. 

Some  from  the  written  lore  of  sage 
Evolve  and  shape  the  eternal  plan ; 

Some  boldly  vaunt  the  inspired  page, 
And  claim  immortal  life  for  man. 

So  onward  down  the  dark  ravine, — 
Dim  phantoms  in  a  phantom  night, — 

We  wander  toward  a  realm  unseen, 

Where  nothing  dwells  but  love  and  light. 
247 


Vain  dreams  !  of  mortal  frailty  wrought, 
And  nameless  dread  of  nameless  ill ! 

Man's  sceptre  is  the  regnant  thought 
And  towering  calm  of  human  will ! 

One  lesson  comes  to  all  that  live, 
One  final  truth  their  lives  declare, — 

That  earth  has  nought  but  toil  to  give, 
And  nought  to  teach  but  how  to  bear  : 

The  chastened  calm  of  dumb  assent, 

Though  hope  should  wither  or  should  bloom, 

Blind  to  all  purpose  or  event, 

And  silent,  'neath  the  eyes  of  doom. 

This,  only  this,  remains  of  all 

The  morning  pomp  of  young  belief, — 

That  man,  else  Nature's  abject  thrall, 
In  royal  will  is  Nature's  chief. 

Thought  falters,  faith  is  dazed  with  fear, 
Earth  keeps  her  secret,  death  is  dumb  : 

This  simply  bears  its  burden  here, 

And  dauntless  fronts  whate'er  may  come. 

As  some  tall  ship  that  braves  the  storm — 
Straight  out  to  sea  her  prow  is  bent, 

Where  broken,  on  her  stalwart  form, 
The  furies  of  the  surge  are  spent : 
248 


Or,  torn  by  rock  and  whelmed  by  wave, 
Exultant  when  her  doom  is  met, 

She  rears  above  her  ocean  grave, 
And  sinks  with  every  standard  set. 


A    WISH 

THINK  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

And  call  me  by  a  tender  name : 
I  will  not  care  what  others  say, 

If  only  you  remain  the  same ! 
I  will  not  care  how  dark  the  night, 

I  will  not  care  how  wild  the  storm : 
Your  love  will  fill  my  heart  with  light, 

And  shield  me  close,  and  keep  me  warm. 

Think  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray, 

For  else  my  life  is  little  worth : 
So  shall  your  memory  light  my  way, 

Although  we  meet  no  more  on  earth : 
For  while  I  know  your  faith  secure, 

I  ask  no  happier  fate  to  see : 
Thus  to  be  loved  by  one  so  pure 

Is  honor  rich  enough  for  me. 


249 


A    GREETING 


THE  sunset  beams  that  backward  flow 
Illumine  with  their  golden  glow 

Life's  glim'ring  plain, 
And  we,  as  side  by  side  we  wend, 
Look  to  the  Past,  where  darkly  blend 
Shadows  of  hopes  and  dreams,  dear  friend, 

Pleasure  and  pain. 

II 

But  there's  no  darkness  on  the  track 
Where  we  have  journey'd  !     Looking  back 

O'er  many  a  year, 
By  loving  Fancy  led,  I  deem 
I  still  can  see  the  roses  gleam 
And,  sweet  by  many  a  murm'ring  stream, 

The  violets  peer. 

Ill 

So  be  it,  till  the  light  shall  fail, 
And,  as  we  wander  down  the  vale, 

Our  fate  be  blest, 
By  fond  affection  holding  fast, 
Only  to  think  of  pleasures  past 
With  grateful  hearts,  and  so,  at  last, 

Find  peace  and  rest. 
250 


TRIBUTE    TO    IRVING 


IF  we  could  win  from  Shakespeare's  river 

The  music  of  its  murmuring  flow, 
With  all  the  wild-bird  notes  that  quiver 

Where  Avon's  scarlet  meadows  glow; 
If  we  could  twine  with  joy  at  meeting 

Their  prayers  who  lately  grieved  to  part, 
Ah,  then,  indeed,  our  song  of  greeting 

Might  find  an  echo  in  his  heart ! 

But  though  we  cannot,  in  our  singing, 

That  music  and  those  prayers  entwine, 
At  least  we'll  set  our  blue-bells  ringing, 

And  he  shall  hear  our  whispering  pine; 
And  these  shall  breathe  a  welcome  royal, 

In  accents  tender,  sweet,  and  kind, 
From  lips  as  fond,  and  hearts  as  loyal 

As  any  that  he  left  behind. 


II 


Far  off  beyond  the  shining  sea, 
Where  scarlet  poppies  glisten, 
251 


And  daisies  on  the  emerald  lea 

Lift  up  their  heads  and  listen, 
Where  Thames  and  Avon  glance  and  glow, 

To-day  the  waters,  straying, 
Will  murmur  in  their  tranquil  flow 

The  words  that  we  are  saying. 


Ah,  not  in  parting  hours  alone 

Is  fond  affection  spoken  : 
The  love  that  weeps  in  sorrow's  moan 

Still  smiles  in  welcome's  token. 
Farewell,  farewell  our  hearts  will  sigh, 

When  void  and  dark  his  place  is ; 
But  'Well  for  me'  is  England's  cry, 

To  him  her  love  embraces ! 


Farewell,  thou  child  of  many  a  prayer ! 

While  lonely  we  deplore  thee, 
All  crystal  be  the  seas  that  bear, 

And  skies  that  sparkle  o'er  thee. 
Thy  mother's  heart,  thy  mother's  lip 

Will  soon  once  more  caress  thee ; 
We  can  but  watch  thy  lessening  ship, 

And,  in  our  silence,  bless  thee ! 

But  let  the  golden  waves  leap  up 
While  yet  our  hearts  beat  near  him ! 

No  bitter  drop  be  in  the  cup 
With  which  our  hope  would  cheer  him ! 
252 


Pour  the  red  roses  at  his  feet ! 

Wave  laurel  boughs  above  him ! 
And  if  we  part  or  if  we  meet, 

Be  glad  and  proud  to  love  him ! 

His  life  has  made  this  iron  age 

More  grand  and  fair  in  story ; 
Illumed  our  Shakespeare's  sacred  page 

With  new  and  deathless  glory ; 
Refreshed  the  love  of  noble  fame 

In  hearts  all  sadly  faring, 
And  lit  anew  the  dying  flame 

Of  genius  and  of  daring. 

Long  may  his  radiant  summer  smile 

Where  Albion's  rose  is  dreaming, 
And  over  Art's  Hesperian  isle 

His  royal  banner  streaming ; 
While  every  trumpet  blast  that  rolls 

From  Britain's  lips  to  hail  him 
Is  echoed  in  our  kindred  souls, 

Whose  truth  can  never  fail  him. 

On  your  white  wings,  ye  angel  years, 

Through  roseate  sunshine  springing, 
Waft  fortune  from  all  happier  spheres, 

With  garlands  and  with  singing; 
Make  strong  that  tender  heart,  and  true — 

That  thought  of  heaven  to  guide  him — 
And  blessings  pour,  like  diamond  dew, 

On  her  that  walks  beside  him  ! 
253 


And  when  is  said  the  last  farewell, 

So  solemn  and  so  certain, 
And  Fate  shall  strike  the  prompter's  bell, 

To  drop  the  final  curtain, 
Be  his,  whom  every  muse  hath  blest, 

That  best  of  earthly  closes, — 
To  sink  to  rest  on  England's  breast, 

And  sleep  beneath  her  roses. 

Ill 

Now  fades  across  the  glimmering  deep,  now  darkly  drifts 

away, 

The  royal  monarch  of  our  hearts,  the  glory  of  our  day ; 
The  pale  stars  shine,  the  night  wind  sighs,  the  sad  sea 

makes  its  moan, 
And  we,  bereft,  are  standing  here,  in  silence  and  alone. 

Gone  every  shape  of  power  and  dread  his  magic  touch 
could  paint; 

Gone  haunted  Aram's  spectral  face,  and  England's  mar 
tyred  saint ; 

Gone  Mathias,  of  the  frenzied  soul,  and  Louis'  sceptred 
guile, 

The  gentle  head  of  poor  Lesurques,  and  Hamlet's  holy 
smile. 

No  more  in  gray  Messina's  halls  shall  love  and  revel 

twine ; 

No    more    on    Portia's    midnight    bowers    the  moon   of 
summer  shine ; 

254 


No  golden  barge  on  Hampton's  stream  salute  the  per 
fumed  shore; 

No  ghost  on  Denmark's  rampart  cliff  affright  our  pulses 
more! 

The  morning  star  of  art,  he  rose  across  the  eastern  sea 

To  wake  the  slumbering  harp,  and  set  the  frozen  foun 
tain  free ; 

Now,  wrapt  in  glory's  mist,  he  seeks  his  orient  skies  again; 

And  tender  thoughts  in  sorrowing  hearts  are  all  that  must 
remain.  .  .  . 

Slow  fade,  across  a  drearier  sea,  beneath  a  darker  sky, 
The  dreams  that  cheer,  the  lights  that  lure,  the  baffled 

hopes  that  die : 
Youth's  trust,  love's  bliss,  ambition's  pride, — the  white 

wings  all  are  flown, 
And  memory  walks  the  lonely  shore,  indifferent  and  alone. 

Yet  sometimes  o'er  that  shadowy  deep,  by  wandering 

breezes  blown, 
Float   odors   from   Hesperian   isles,  with  music's  organ 

tone, 
And  something  stirs  within  the  breast,  a  secret,  nameless 

thrill, 
To  say,  though  worn,  and  sear,  and  sad,  our  hearts  are 

human  still ; — 

If  not  the  torrid   diamond  wave  that  made  young  life 

sublime, 

If  not  the  tropic  rose  that  bloomed  in  every  track  of  time, 

255 


If  not  exultant  passion's  glow,  when  all  the  world  was 

fair, 
At  least  one  flash  of  heaven,  one  breath  of  Art's  immortal 

air ! 

Ah,  God,  make  bright,  for  many  a  year,  on  Beauty's 
heavenly  shrine, 

This  hallowed  fire  that  Thou  hast  lit,  this  sacred  soul  of 
Thine ! 

While  love's  sweet  light  and  sorrow's  tear, — life's  sun 
shine  dimmed  with  showers — 

Shall  keep  for  aye  his  memory  green  in  these  true  hearts 
of  ours ! 


FAITH 

THE  rose  that  withered  here  will  bloom  again, 

The  voice,  now  hushed,  resume  the  broken  strain, 

The  song,  now  still 'd,  peal  forth  a  note  of  bliss, 

By  angels  heard,  in  happier  world  than  this, 

The  tender  smile  relume  the  gentle  face, 

The  mortal  love  survive  in  heavenly  grace, 

The  noble  mind  renew  its  magic  spell, 

The  tender  heart  beat  on,  and  all  be  well ! 

So  whispers  patient  Faith,  and,  far  away, 

Through  Death's  drear  darkness  breaks  Life's  golden  day. 


256 


CORONATION    ODE 


DAUGHTER  and  Mother  of  a  line  of  kings, 

With  Heaven's  morning  light  upon  thy  brow, 
Who  didst  ordain  thy  earthly  dower 
Of  golden  fame  and  sovereign  power 

To  him  who  wields  old  England's  sceptre  now, 
Be  with  him  in  this  hour, 
This  royal  hour, — wafted  on  angel  wings, 
Superb,  supreme,  imperial, — that  brings 
His  consecration  to  the  Right  Divine 

That  once  was  thine  ! 
And  thou,  O  England,  from  thy  furthest  bound, 

And  from  the  inmost  depth  of  thy  great  heart, 
Pour  forth  thy  gladness,  till  his  realm  resound 

With  acclamation  !     He  will  ne'er  depart 
From  her  example,  whose  exalted  sway, — 
Like  to  the  sun  that  makes  and  rules  the  day, — 
Taught  monarchs  how  to  reign,  and  subjects  to  obey. 

II 

Hark  to  the  joyous  cry ! 

Round  and  round  the  world  it  rolls, — 
From  the  tropics,  from  the  poles, 

257 


Wheresoever  England's  royal  banners  fly, 

And  the  happy  echoes  repeat  it  from,  the  sky, — 

Joy  and  praise  that  Fate's  decree, 

Making  England  great  and  free, 

Grants  a  ruler  such  as  he, — 

EDWARD,  whom,  with  one  accord, 

All  the  People  hail  their  lord, 

Placing  on  his  head  the  crown 

Of  VICTORIA'S  renown, 

And,  with  many  a  fervent  prayer, 

Asking  God  to  bind  it  there, 

And  with  blessing  consecrate 

England's  King  and  England's  State ! 

Hark  to  the  joyous  cry ! 
Crags,  that  tempt  the  eager  sea, 

Mountains,  smiling  to  the  morn, 
Brimming  rivers,  flowing  free, 

Roses,  that  the  meads  adorn, 
Clouds,  that  make  proud  Snowdon's  wreath, 

Waves,  that  kiss  sweet  Ireland's  shore, 
Winds,  that  blow  from  Scotland's  heath 

Blend  their  voices  o'er  and  o'er, 
And  all  the  land  breaks  into  flowers,  to  bless  a  merry 

throng, 
And  all  the  world  is  glad  with  hope,  and  jubilant  with  song  ! 

Ill 

Lo !  through  the  vista  of  the  storied  Past 
What  forms  come  thronging,  and  what  looks  are  cast 
On  him,  by  Heaven  ordain'd,  who  grandly  bears 
The  burden  of  an  empire  once  was  theirs ! 

258 


With  solemn  passion  in  their  awful  eyes, 
Spectral  and  cold,  the  phantom  shapes  arise ! 
Come,  ye  great  kings,  with  more  than  mortal  speech 
Your  peer  to  welcome  and  his  heart  to  reach ! 
Regnant  over  hopes  and  fears, 
Regnant  over  smiles  and  tears, 
In  your  calm  of  wisdom  come,  and  garner'd  strength  of 

years ! 
Whisper  that  the  mountain  peak 

Must  ever  dwell  alone, 
But  loudly  of  the  fealty  speak 

That  circles  round  his  throne, — 
His  People's  love,  whatever  foes  assail  him, 
That  knows  him  gentle,  strong,  and  true,  and  nevermore 

will  fail  him ! 
Radiant  the  glories  are 

Your  dying  hands  let  fall, 
But  more  resplendent  far 

His  crown  that  blends  them  all, — 
Holding  your  conquests  and  your  fame  enshrin'd 
In  the  deep  reverence  of  human  kind, 
Wherever  nations  own  its  mild  control, 
And  names  of  glory  blaze,  to  thrill  the  aspiring  soul. 


IV 


Neither  doubtful  nor  elate, 
But  calmly  brave  and  simply  great 
Must  be  the  ruler  of  the  State, 
On  whom  the  destinies  of  empire  wait, 
When  the  dread  Future  speaks  the  word  of  Fate. 

259 


Not  in  the  vanity  of  youth, 

But  in  the  ripeness  of  his  days, 
Unmoved  by  either  blame  or  praise, 
Knowing  sorrow  and  knowing  truth, 
By  wise  experience  schooled, 
By  steadfast  duty  rul'd, 
And  perfect  love  of  his  most  royal  mate, — 
Noble,  and  gentle,  and  compassionate, — 
Comes  the  Prince  whom  now  we  hail, 
Vested  with  his  People's  might, 
Foremost  champion  of  the  right, 
Welding  the  league  of  nations  to  assail 
The  lingering  foes  of  Freedom,  and  prevail, 
Till  all  the  earth  is  fair  with  peace,  and  glorious  with  light. 


Peace  !     The  holy  word  is  said, — 

Omen  sacred,  solemn,  dread, — 

In  the  temple  of  the  dead  ! 

Peace  !     And  in  his  grandeur  leave  him, 
Trusting  ever,  trusting  all ! 

Let  there  be  no  doubt  to  grieve  him, 
And  no  idle  word  to  vex  his  spirit's  sacred  thrall ! 
At  the  feet  of  God  he  stands, 
And  our  hearts  are  in  his  hands. 


260 


LOUIS 

A  KINGLY  name !  and  like  a  king 
He  wore  it, — bearing  mortal  pain, 

And  ev'ry  ill  that  Fate  could  bring, 
With  calm  disdain. 

A  kingly  name  !   a  name  of  grace  ! 

My  heart  repeats  it,  o'er  and  o'er, 
With  love  and  pride, — but  his  dear  face 

I  see  no  more. 

And  I  must  never,  never  see, 

In  all  this  world  of  bleak  distress, 

Those  eyes  that  only  looked  on  me 
To  love  and  bless. 

Those  eyes,  that  spoke  the  constant  mind, 
That  patient  smile,  that  heart  of  gold, — 

So  true,  so  tender,  and  so  kind, — 
Are  dark  and  cold. 

A  kingly  name !     But  names  of  kings 
Are  shadows,  and  for  me,  bereft, 

This  shadow,  'mid  substantial  things, 
Alone  is  left. 

261 


Yet  not  alone,  while  Thought  can  keep, 
And  deathless  Love  its  glamor  cast 

To  brighten,  in  the  realm  of  sleep, 
The  sacred  Past. 


For  faithful  Memory  fondly  weaves 
Her  rainbow  web  of  smiles  and  tears 

O'er  all  that  ruthless  ruin  leaves 
Of  treasur'd  years : 

The  careless  sports  of  Long  Ago, 

The  scholar's  calm,  the  comrade's  mirth, 

Quaint  humor,  and  the  poet's  glow, 
Transfig'ring  earth : 

And  still  Remembrance  fondly  dwells 
On  patience  sweet,  and  courage  high, 

And  gentle  dignity  that  tells 
The  way  to  die. 

His  hope  was  blighted  in  its  morn ; 

His  life  was  blasted  in  its  bloom ; 
But  honor,  love,  and  grief  adorn 

His  early  tomb. 

And  I,  who  should  have  gone  before, 
To  light  the  path  and  point  the  way, 

Remain,  in  anguish,  to  deplore 
His  darken 'd  day ; 

262 


To  wonder  that  the  hand  of  doom 

Should  smite  the  young,  and  grimly  leave 

Dejected  age,  in  twilight  gloom, 
To  pine  and  grieve ; 

To  look  upon  the  vacant  chair, 
To  dream  that,  in  a  little  while, 

I  shall  again  behold  him  there, 
And  see  him  smile ; 

To  love  him,  as  with  love  divine, 
To  mourn  him  with  a  father's  tear, 

To  bless  his  slumber,  and  to  shrine 
His  memory  here. 


SUBMISSION 

Who  rusts  inactive  learns  the  bliss  of  toil  ; 
Who  sinks  in  toil  has  learned  the  bliss  of  rest  ; 
And  God,  whose  purpose  is  the  good  of  all, 
Knows  best  both  when  to  give  and  when  withhold. 


263 


RESIGNATION 


BE  patient  and  be  wise !     The  eyes  of  death 

Look  on  us  with  a  smile :  her  soft  caress, 

That  stills  the  anguish  and  that  stops  the  breath, 

Is  Nature's  ordination,  meant  to  bless 

Our  mortal  woes  with  peaceful  nothingness. 

Be  not  afraid !     The  Power  that  made  the  light 

In  your  kind  eyes,  and  set  the  stars  on  high, 

And  gave  us  love,  meant  not  that  all  should  die, — 

Like  a  brief  day-dream,  quench' d  in  sudden  night. 

Think  that  to  die  is  but  to  fall  asleep 

And  wake  refresh'd  where  the  new  morning  breaks, 

And  golden  day  her  rosy  vigor  takes 

From  winds  that  fan  eternity's  far  height, 

And  the  white  crests  of  God's  perpetual  deep. 

II 

'His  time  is  spent,  our  pilgrimage  must  be!' 
So  the  wise  poet, — wisest  of  mankind, — 
In  admonition  that  should  make  us  see, — 
Though  half  distraught,  and  in  our  misery  blind, — 
That  our  sole  refuge  is  the  constant  mind, 
The  steadfast  purpose,  brave,  and  strong,  and  free, 
To  bear  affliction  and  to  be  resigned, — 

264 


Knowing  that  ruthless  Time  will  one  day  rend 

The  veil  that  hides  the  deep  that  all  must  cross, 

And  that  th'  eternity  to  which  we  tend, — 

Made  precious  with  the  soul  of  many  a  friend, — 

Is  richer,  lovelier,  holier  for  our  loss; 

Where  crown'd  with  peace,  as  with  a  diadem, 

Our  lov'd  ones  long  for  us,  even  as  we  long  for  them. 


VIOLA 

A  cloud  of  crystal,  veined  with  gold 
Slow   drifting  in  the  rosy  west 

Is  not  more  lovely  to  behold 

Than  thou  art, — and  thy  father's  breast, 

While  fond  affection  holds  her  seat, 
Will   keep  that  image  of  thy  grace, 
Thy  buoyant  form,  thy  gentle  face, 

Thy  spirit,  ever  blythe  and  sweet, — 

In  frolic  and  in  love  complete! 

And  so,  dear  child, — though  mountains  rise 
Between  us,  and  our  brooding  skies 
Are  alien, — wheresoe  'er  thou   art, 

Thy  constant  home  is  in  thy  father's  heart. 


265 


THE   RHYME    OF   THE   VETERAN 

A  LINE  or  two 

Of  thanks  to  you 
For  memories  that  your  words  renew, — 

The  good,  the  bad, 

The  gay,  the  sad, 
The  rose,  the  fennel,  and  the  rue, 

The  ancient  ways, 

The  vanish' d  days, 
When  heart  and  mind  were  all  ablaze 

With  purpose  true 

To  dare  and  do 
Such  deeds  as  might  the  world  amaze ! 

They  all  come  back, 

A  motley  pack, 
Or  swift  or  slow,  in  Memory's  track, 

And,  as  they  come, 

Those  phantoms  dumb, 
Of  days  and  joys  now  gone  to  wrack, 

I  can  but  think, 

The  while  I  drink, 
To  those  I  lov'd  when  on  life's  brink, 

Fate  had  been  kind 

(And  I  resign'd) 

With  them  long  since  to  let  me  sink : 
266 


For,  old  and  drear, 

I  linger  here, 
And  time  glides  on  from  year  to  year, 

And  all  that  lies 

Beneath  the  skies 
Is  like  what  I  am,  bleak  and  sere. 

Yet  well  I  know 

It  is  not  so, 
While  violets  spring  and  roses  blow, 

To  those  for  whom 

The  lilies  bloom 
And  Hope  expands  her  roseate  bow : 

So  let  me  smile, 

And  thus  beguile 
The  prospect  of  life's  closing  mile, 

Because  for  rest, 

With  all  that's  best, 
I've  but  to  wait  a  little  while ; 

With  patience  wait, 

Till,  soon  or  late, 
The  moment  comes  of  mortal  fate, 

And,  freed  from  care, 

I  cleave  the  air 
And  vanish  through  the  golden  gate ; — 

That  gate  which  hides 

Our  angel  guides 
To  realms  where  heavenly  love  abides, 

Where  sorrows  cease, 

And,  soothed  to  peace, 
The  fever  of  the  soul  subsides : 
267 


Or,  so  we  deem, 

And  if  it  seem 
The  idle  fabric  of  a  dream, 

'Twere  better  sure 

Hope  should  endure 
Than  life  be  thought  a  demon's  scheme ! 

So,  pour  the  wine, 

And  while  I  twine 
These  wayward  rhymes  of  Auld  Lang  Syne, 

I'll  drink  to  you, 

The  brave,  the  true, 
The  last  in  sacred  Friendship's  line ! 

The  world  is  old, 

The  stars  are  cold, 
The  wolves  of  Time  are  fierce  and  bold : 

But  we'll  not  fear 

The  night  that's  near, 
Nor  ever  doubt  its  morn  of  gold. 


THIS  BOOK 

'Tis  little,  but  'tis  witness  of  one  soul, — 

How  life  has  curbed  it  to  the  just  control 

Of  Duty,  teaching  that  as  first  of  good, 

With  humble  faith  and  cheerful  fortitude ; 

And  so,  by  other  heirs  of  joy  and  pain, 

My  voice,  if  heard  at  all,  will  not  be  heard  in  vain, 


268 


IN    MEMORY     OF    CURTIS 

I 

BENEATH  the  snow,  beneath  the  daisies, 

Beyond  all  thought  of  good  or  ill, 
Beyond  all  blame,  beyond  all  praises, 

He  sleeps, — whom  we  remember  still ; 
Remember,  honor,  and  deplore  him, 

As  this  our  tribute  fane  may  show, 
The  while  our  hearts  are  murm'ring  o'er  him 

'  Alas  !  if  he  could  only  know  ! ' 

II 

He  cannot  know :  the  veil  of  sable, 

The  dense,  impenetrable  night, 
O'er  him  has  closed, — and  all  is  fable, 

Of  things  beyond  our  mortal  sight ! 
Yet,  we  can  love,  and,  having  known  him, — 

That  royal  soul  whom  we  revere, — 
Our  faithful  hearts  may  well  bemoan  him ! 

Our  homage  well  may  crown  him  here ! 

Ill 

He  cannot  know  !     Its  vigil  keeping, 
Above  him  waves  the  solemn  pine, 

While  o'er  the  sod,  where  he  lies  sleeping, 
The  wild  rose  and  the  bramble  twine : 
269 


High  up  the  curlews  dart  or  cluster ; 

More  near  old  ocean  smiles  or  weeps ; 
And  he  is  part  of  all  the  lustre 

Of  Nature's  pomp  wherein  he  sleeps. 

IV 

He  lives  in  morning's  wave  of  splendor ; 

He  lives  in  evening's  pensive  gleam ; 
He  lives  in  memories  sweet  and  tender, 

Where  roses  burn,  where  violets  dream : 
His  image  fills  all  sacred  places, — 

A  shape  that  Time  can  never  dim ! 
In  life  he  hallowed  all  the  graces, 

And  dead,  all  graces  hallow  him ! 

V 

His  was  the  will  that  never  falter'd ; 

The  promise  that  was  always  kept; 
The  stern  resolve,  that  never  alter'd ; 

The  vigil  heart,  that  never  slept ; 
The  generous  wish  to  scatter  blessings ; 

The  purpose  of  celestial  grace, 
That  has  no  life  save  in  redressing 

The  wrongs  that  curse  the  human  race ! 

VI 

Our  worldly  schemes  full  soon  are  blighted, 
Like  them  we  dwindle  and  decay, 

But  let  this  shrine  to  him  be  plighted 
Whose  glory  cannot  pass  away ; 
270 


With  whose  pure  name  forever  blended 
Virtue  and  Honor  stand  secure, 

In  fame  that  never  can  be  ended, 
And,  like  that  fame,  it  will  endure ! 


THE     VOICE     OF     THE     BELL 

IN  my  tower,  above  the  gate 

Of  the  Western  World,  I  watch  and  wait. 

I  warn :  I  welcome :  I  bid  farewell : 

I  sound  the  paean :  I  sound  the  knell : 

Joy  and  sorrow  by  me  are  rung ; 

And  the  nation's  heart  is  in  my  tongue. 


W.  L.  S. 

PURE  soul  and  true !  in  bonds  of  doubt  confined, 
At  first  he  faltered,  'neath  the  pall  of  night ; 

Then,  on  the  wings  of  his  imperial  mind, 
Soared  to  the  sun  and  vanished  in  the  light. 


271 


THE    YELLOW    ROSE 

AH,  had  we   met   in  other   days,    before   my   soul   had 

known 
What  'tis  to  smile  o'er  ruined  hopes,  in  mockery    and 

alone, 
Perchance    it   then    had    been    my  lot,  which  now  can 

never  be, 
To  make  thy  heart,  that  beats  for  none,  beat  warm  and 

true  for  me. 

But  now  the  shadows  round  my  way  are  gathering 
dark  and  grim, 

The  wind  blows  coldly  off  the  shore,  the  lights  are 
growing  dim, 

The  angry  waters  rage  and  roar,  and  headlong  through 
the  night 

From  love,  from  hope,  from  thee,  my  barque  goes  plung 
ing  out  of  sight. 

And  so  I  waft  my  fond  farewell  across  the  darkening 

brine : 
Thy  heart  can  never,  never  bring  the  peace  of  love  to 

mine : 
There  is  no  peace  for  evermore,  in  earth  or  heaven,  for 

me — 
But,  oh,  if  this  could  once  have  been,  how  lovely  life 

would  be ! 

272 


I    see    thee   on    the    distant  shore,  in  all  thy  glittering 

grace, 
The  sunshine  streaming  round  thy  form,  and  hope  upon 

thy  face; 
And  I  shall  see  those  glorious  eyes  and  hear  that  voice 

divine 
Till  fate  has  stilled  this  wayward  heart, — but  true  till 

death  to  thine. 

Nor  chance  nor  change  can  ever  dim  the  glory  of  that 

brow; 
The  light  will  shine  forever  there  that  shines  upon  thee 

now; 

And  tempest-tost  and  far  away,  upon  the  sea  of  sin, 
I  yet  shall  know,  though  lost  to  me,  there  was  a  heaven 

to  win. 

I  did  not  think  that  time  or  grief  could  ever  break  the 

pride 
That  lets  my  soul  reveal  the  truth  it  now  no  more  can 

hide, 
But  lonely  o'er  the  wreck  of  youth  its  fires  are  burning 

yet,-— 

And,  well  for  me  if  I  had  died  or  ever  we  had  met ! 


273 


A    SOUVENIR 

AH,  Lily,  when  my  head  lies  low, 
In  yonder  quiet  woodland  dell, — 

Where  the  wild-flowers  will  sweetly  blow, 
Above  the  eyes  that  loved  them  well, — 

How  soon  thy  sorrow  would  depart 

If  word  of  mine  could  soothe  thy  heart ! 

Somewhere,  some  day,  we  meet  again ! 

Think  this,  and  be  this  thought  relief ! 
In  life  I  have  not  brought  thee  pain ; 

In  death  I  must  not  bring  thee  grief. 
Strew  with  the  flowers  of  hope  my  pall, 
And  gently  mourn,  or  not  at  all ! 


274 


IN    ABSENCE 

To  others  let  the  sunbeams  fly, — 
Those  smiles  that  dazzle,  fade,  and  die, — 
But  give  to  me  one  ling'ring  sigh, 
As  when  you  cast  the  roses  by : 
For  then  full  surely  I  shall  know 
You  were  not  glad  that  I  should  go, 
But  sometimes,  in  your  heart,  deplore 
That  we,  on  earth,  must  meet  no  more, 


THE   YOUNG   HEART 

As  years  drift  on  and  joys  decline, 

And  life,  grown  gray  with  duty, 
Sees  no  more  sparkle  on  the  wine, 

Nor  on  the  lips  of  beauty, 
How  blest  is  he  whose  soul  can  keep 

The  sacred  flame  still  gleaming, 
That  makes  our  days  one  mystic  sleep 

Of  hoping  and  of  dreaming ! 


275 


THE     OLD     LOVE 

IF  I  could  speak  thy  gentle  grace, 

Which  far  surpasses  word, 
This  rhyme  were  sweeter,  now  I  trace, 

Than  ever  yet  was  heard  ; 
For  here  would  blend  the  morning's  glee, 

And  peace  of  evening's  close, 
With  music  of  the  summer  sea, 

And  fragrance  of  the  rose. 

But  since  affection's  tender  strain, 

And  passion's  fervid  line, 
Would  seem  but  idle,  weak,  and  vain 

To  goodness  such  as  thine, 
Let  all  my  life  avouch  thy  worth, 

And  all  my  love  thy  praise ! 
For  never  woman  walked  on  earth 

In  more  angelic  ways  ! 

I've  seen  life's  golden  prime  depart, 

And  evening,  cold  and  gray, 
With  moaning  winds  that  chill  the  heart, 

Fall  darkly  round  my  way ; 
But,  in  thy  pure  affection  blest, 

My  soul  can  still  descry 
One  rift  of  sunshine  in  the  west, 

One  hope  that  cannot  die ! 
276 


MEMORY 


A  TANGLED  garden,  bleak,  and  dry, 
And  silent,  'neath  a  dark'ning  sky, 
Is  all  that  barren  Age  retains 
Of  costly  Youth's  superb  domains. 
Mute  in  its  bosom,  cold  and  lone, 
A  dial  watches,  on  a  stone ; 
The  vines  are  sere,  the  haggard  boughs 
In  dusky  torpor  dream  and  drowse ; 
The  paths  are  deep  with  yellow  leaves, 
In  which  the  wind  of  evening  grieves ; 
And  up  and  down,  and  to  and  fro, 
One  pale  gray  shadow  wanders  slow. 


II 


When  now  the  fading  sunset  gleams 
Across  a  glim'ring  waste  of  dreams ; 
When  now  the  shadows  eastward  fall, 
And  twilight  hears  the  curlew's  call ; 
When  blighted  now  the  lily  shows, 
And  no  more  bloom  is  on  the  rose ; 
What  phantom  of  the  dying  day 
Shall  gild  the  wanderer's  sombre  way,- 
277 


What  new  illusion  of  delight, 
What  magic,  ushering  in  the  night  ? 
For,  deep  beneath  the  proudest  will, 
The  heart  must  have  its  solace  still. 

Ill 

Ah,  many  a  hope  too  sweet  to  last 

Is  in  that  garden  of  the  Past, 

And  many  a  flower  that  once  was  fair 

Lies  cold,  and  dead,  and  wither' d  there ; 

Youth's  promise,  trusted  Friendship's  bliss, 

Fame's  laurel,  Love's  enraptur'd  kiss, 

Beauty  and  strength, — the  spirit's  wings, — 

And  the  glad  sense  of  natural  things, 

And  times  that  smile,  and  times  that  weep, — 

All  shrouded  in  the  cells  of  sleep ; 

While  o'er  them  careless  zephyrs  pass, 

And  sunbeams,  in  the  rustling  grass. 


IV 


So  ends  it  all :  but  never  yet 
Could  the  true  heart  of  love  forget ; 
And  grander  sway  was  never  known 
Than  his,  who  reigns  on  Memory's  throne ! 
Though  grim  the  threat  and  dark  the  frown 
With  which  the  pall  of  night  comes  down, 
Though  all  the  scene  be  drear  and  wild, 
Life  once  was  precious, — once  it  smiled, — 
278 


And  in  his  dream  he  lives  again 
With  ev'ry  joy  that  crowned  it  then, 
And  no  remorse  of  time  can  dim 
The  splendor  of  the  Past  for  him. 


The  sea  that  round  his  childhood  play'd 

Still  makes  the  music  once  it  made, 

And  still  in  Fancy's  chambers  sing 

The  breezes  of  eternal  Spring ; 

While,  thronging  youth's  resplendent  track, 

The  princes  and  the  queens  come  back, 

And  everywhere  the  dreary  mould 

Breaks  into  Nature's  green  and  gold ! 

It  is  not  night, — or,  if  it  be, 

So  let  the  night  descend  for  me, 

WThen  Mem'ry's  radiant  dream  shall  cease,- 

Slow  lapsing  into  perfect  peace. 


279 


PERDITA 

I  WATCHED  your  ship  where,  strong  and  bright, 
She  sailed  into  the  gathering  night 

And  sped  away ; 
I  saw  the  sunset  colors  die, 
And  gray  gloom  wrap  the  evening  sky, 

And  veil  the  day. 

I  heard  the  cold  waves  on  the  shore 
Their  pensive  sorrow  o'er  and  o'er 

In  murmurs  tell, 

While,  as  the  glimmering  sea  grew  dim, 
The  wind  sang  low  its  vesper  hymn, — 

Farewell,  Farewell. 

What  thoughts  of  blessing  and  of  prayer 
I  wafted  on  the  twilight  air, 

What  fancies  drear 

Possessed  my  soul,  no  words  could  say, — 
Yet  holy  angels,  listening,  may 

Its  homage  hear. 

I  mused  upon  your  parting  word, 
The  low,  sad  whisper,  scarcely  heard, 
Your  angel  face, 

280 


And, — fadeless  flowers  in  memory's  track, — 
The  happy  days,  that  come  not  back, 
Of  fortune's  grace : 

Days  when  we  roved  on  Avon's  side, 
Or  wandered  by  the  rushing  tide 

Of  bickering  Stour, 
Or  in  the  great  cathedral  strayed, — 
Where  to  be  worthy  still  I  prayed 

Of  one  so  pure. 

The  sunset  mist,  the  golden  town, 

When  we  strolled  home  from  Harbledown, 

The  merry  bands 
Of  rustic  girls  who  bore,  for  sign 
Of  prospered  toil,  the  fragrant  vine 

In  tawny  hands ; 

The  quiet  streets,  as  evening  fell, 
The  minster's  gloom,  the  solemn  bell, 

The  scented  air, 

The  rooks  that  thronged  the  giant  trees, 
The  churchyard  stones,  and  over  these 

The  moonlight  fair, — 

I  felt  them  all,  as  though  that  they 
Had  been  the  things  of  yesterday, 

And  chill  regret 

Preyed  on  my  lonely  heart,  to  think 
How  soon  the  stars  of  pleasure  sink, 

And  we  forget. 

281 


The  Thames  is  flowing  broad  and  free 
'Neath  that  old  bridge  of  Battersea, 

Where,  veiled  in  gloom, 
Great  St.  John  sleeps, — too  sound  to  wake, 
For  all  the  vows  that  lovers  make 

Beside  his  tomb. 

The  emerald  throstle's  silver  call 
Is  heard  by  Leic'ster's  haunted  hall, 

And  down  the  vale 
Of  Kenilworth  the  hawthorns  wreath, 
And  roses  tremble,  underneath 

The  starlight  pale. 

The  winds  of  night  sigh  softly  through 
The  needles  of  St.  Martin's  yew, 

And  round  the  shrines 
Of  gray  St.  Nicholas  the  lone 
And  melancholy  breezes  moan, 

And  ivy  twines. 

From  those  proud  cliffs  that  smile  on  France 
You  still  might  see  the  moonbeams  dance 

O'er  midnight  waves ; — 
Are  all  the  reveries  sublime 
And  holy  thoughts  of  that  sweet  time 

Lost  in  their  graves  ? 

Is  the  light  faded,  has  the  ray 

Of  heaven  become  the  common  day, 

282 


And  from  your  breast 
The  careless  warder  Time  let  slip 
The  sense  of  fond  companionship 

That  was  its  guest  ? 

I  will  not  think  it — though,  for  me, 
By  day  or  night,  by  land  or  sea, 

Ah,  nevermore 

Can  those  exalted  moments  seem 
Like  aught  but  some  bewildered  dream 

Of  fairy  lore ! 

I  do  not  think  it :  those  clear  eyes 
The  light  that  burns  in  Paradise 

Is  shining  through ; 
And  all  that  radiant  woman  brought 
Of  holy  faith  and  heavenly  thought 

Is  shrined  in  you  ! 

Farewell,  farewell !  the  sands  of  gold 
Have  run  their  course,  the  tale  is  told, 

And  dark  and  fast 

Night  closes  round  my  wandering  way, — 
As  round  the  set  of  that  sad  day 

Which  was  our  last. 

Yet  ever,  while  we  walk  this  earth, 
In  shade  or  shine,  in  grief  or  mirth, 

While  life  endures, 

One  thought  must  still  our  hearts  entwine,- 
And  naught  can  take  your  place  in  mine, 

Nor  mine  in  yours. 
283 


ELEGY    FOR    MANSFIELD 

FOR  me  terrestrial  mountains  rise; 

For  thee  celestial  rivers  run ; 
My  steps  are  'neath  familiar  skies, 

But  thine  in  realms  beyond  the  sun. 

This  peaceful  scene,  that  does  not  change, 
This  smiling  vale,  so  fair  to  see, 

Those  lonely  plains,  that  mountain  range, 
So  glorious, — all  were  known  to  thee. 

For  many  a  year,  in  shade  or  shine, 

When  life  was  gay,  when  life  was  drear, 

Thy  friendly  hand  was  clasped  in  mine, 
Thy  form  was  oft  beside  me  here. 

Now,  though  I  sought  through  ev'ry  land, 
I  should  not  feel,  in  any  place, 

The  pressure  of  thy  loving  hand, 
Nor  hear  thy  voice,  nor  see  thy  face. 

So  friendship  fades,  so  love  departs, 
So  living  joy  becomes  a  name 

Shrin'd  in  the  depth  of  breaking  hearts, — 
And  yet  the  world  remains  the  same. 

284 


The  roses  bloom,  the  fields  are  green, 

The  branches  wave,  the  streamlets  flow, — 

For  Nature,  ruffled  or  serene, 
Is  deaf  and  blind  to  human  woe. 

Thy  mind  to  Beauty  was  subdued, 
In  Beauty's  service  thou  wert  blest, — 

Stern  warrior  in  the  bitter  feud 
That  would  not  let  thy  spirit  rest : 

The  feud  that  wakes  angelic  rage, 
The  strife  in  which  so  many  tire, 

The  deadly  war  that  Art  must  wage 
With  mean  intent  and  low  desire. 

Sleep  sweetly,  noble  heart  and  true ! 

The  tempest  of  thy  life  is  o'er ; 
Nor  baffled  hope,  nor  pang  of  rue, 

Nor  any  grief  can  wound  thee  more! 

Sleep  sweetly,  in  that  hallow'd  dell, 

Far  off,  beside  the  solemn  sea, 
Where  tears  and  prayers  will,  constant,  tell 

The  love  that  lives  to  mourn  for  thee. 

There  wild-flowers,  emblems  of  thy  soul, 
Around  thy  tomb  will  bud  and  blow, 

While  Ocean's  melancholy  roll 

Will  chaunt  thy  requiem,  soft  and  low. 

285 


There  oft  the  pilgrim's  musing  gaze 

Will  linger  on  the  votive  stone 
That  mutely  tells  to  future  days 

Thy  power  and  charm,  forever  flown. 

And  there,  in  golden  time  to  come, 
When  all  the  clamor  of  our  day 

Has  sunk  to  silence,  and  the  hum 
Of  vain  detraction  died  away, 

Fame's  Angel,  hov'ring  o'er  thy  rest, 
His  amaranthine  bough  will  wave, 

Proclaiming — Here  lies  Glory's  guest, 

Here  Genius  sleeps  in  MANSFIELD'S  grave ! 


AGE 

SNOW  and  stars,  the  same  as  ever 
In  the  days  when  I  was  young, — 

But  their  silver  song,  ah  never, 
Never  now  is  sung  ! 

Cold  the  stars  are,  cold  the  earth  is, 
Everything  is  grim  and  cold  ! 

Strange  and  drear  the  sound  of  mirth  is- 
Life  and  I  are  old ! 


286 


THE    BROKEN    HARP 

IF  this  now  silent  harp  could  wake, 

How  pure,  how  strong,  how  true 
The  tender  strain  its  chords  would  make 

Of  love  and  grief  for  you  ! 
But,  like  my  heart,  though  faithful  long, 

By  you  cast  forth  to  pain, 
This  hushed  and  humbled  voice  of  song 

Must  never  stir  again. 

Yet,  haply,  when  your  fancy  strays 

O'er  unregarded  things, 
And  half  in  dream  your  gentle  gaze 

Falls  on  its  shattered  strings, 
Some  loving  impulse  may  endear 

Your  memories  of  the  past, 
And  if  for  me  you  shed  one  tear 

I  think  'twould  wake  at  last : 

Wake  with  a  note  so  glad,  so  clear, 

So  lovely,  so  complete, 
That  birds  on  wing  would  pause  to  hear 

Its  music  wild  and  sweet ; 
And  you  would  know, — alas  !  too  late, — 

How  tender  and  how  true 
Is  this  fond  heart,  that  hugs  its  fate, 

To  die  for  love  and  you. 
287 


MISERRIMUS 

THE  torment  of  consuming  thought, 

That  vulture  of  the  breast, 
Must  bide  with  me  till  Death  has  brought 

The  benison  of  rest ; 
But  when  the  weary  watch  I  keep 

In  Time  has  past  away, 
Ah,  let  my  sleep  be  long  and  deep, — 

Forever  and  a  day  ! 

More  ghost  than  man,  a  fleeting  wraith, 

Affrighted  and  aghast, 
I  wander  'mid  the  wrecks  of  faith 

And  ashes  of  the  past : 
Bleak  o'er  my  life  the  winds  that  sweep 

Have  left  it  cold  and  gray ; 
Ah,  let  my  sleep  be  long  and  deep, — 

Forever  and  a  day ! 

I've  joy'd  ;  I've  mourn'd ;  I've  lov'd  and  lost 

The  pearl  of  human  bliss ; 
My  spirit  has  been  tempest-tost 

On  a  fair  demon's  kiss : 
For  me  no  woman's  love  will  weep, 

No  woman's  heart  will  pray : 
Ah,  let  my  sleep  be  long  and  deep, — 

Forever  and  a  day ! 
£88 


I've  suffer'd  :  words  could  never  tell 

The  bitterness  of  wrong  ! 
My  heart  has  been  affliction's  hell, 

While  peace  was  all  my  song : 
I'm  weary :  I'd  be  glad  to  creep 

Into  my  bed  of  clay : 
Ah,  let  my  sleep  be  long  and  deep, — 

Forever  and  a  day  ! 

T.  B.  A. 

I  lay  this  rose  upon  your  grave,  dear  comrade,  fond  and 

true; 
I  never  thought  the  time  would  come  when  I  should 

mourn  for  you. 

I  was  the  elder  of  the  twain,  my  hair  has  long  been  white, 
And  I  have  long  been  ready  for  the  coming  of  the  night. 
I  thought  that  you  would  sometimes  stand  beside  my 

place  of  rest, 
And  call  to  mind  our  days  of  youth,  so  careless  and  so 

blest, 
And  think  upon  our  happy  times,  when  all  the  world  was 

young, 
The  phantom  hopes  that  lured  us,  and  the  songs  that  once 

we  sung ; 

But,  old  and  sad  and  weary,  I  still  must  here  abide, 
While  you  are  with  the  lads  who  throng  upon  the  other 

side. 
WTell — they  know  that  still  I  love  them,  and  that  one  day 

I  shall  be, 

As  they  are,  and  as  you  are,  forever  young  and  free. 

289 


ON    THE    VERGE 

OUT  in  the  dark  it  throbs  and  glows — 
The  wide,  wild  sea,  that  no  man  knows ! 
The  wind  is  chill,  the  surge  is  white, 
And  I  must  sail  that  sea  to-night. 

You  shall  not  sail!     The  breakers  roar 
On  many  a  mile  of  iron  shore, 
The  waves  are  livid  in  their  wrath, 
And  no  man  knows  the  ocean  path. 

I  must  not  bide  for  wind  or  wave  : 
I  must  not  heed,  though  tempests  rave ; 
My  course  is  set,  my  hour  is  known, 
And  I  must  front  the  dark,  alone. 

Your  eyes  are  wild,  your  face  is  pale, — 
This  is  no  night  for  ships  to  sail.' 
The  hungry  wind  is  moaning  low, 
The  storm  is  up — you  shall  not  go! 

'Tis  not  the  moaning  wind  you  hear — 
It  is  a  sound  more  dread  and  drear, 
A  voice  that  calls  across  the  tide, 
A  voice  that  will  not  be  denied. 
290 


Your  words  are  faint,  your  brow  is  cold, 
Your  looks  grow  sudden  gray  and  old, 
The  lights  burn  dim,  the  casements  shake, — 
Ah,  stay  a  little,  for  my  sake! 

Too  late  !     Too  late  !     The  vow  you  said 
This  many  a  year  is  cold  and  dead, 
And  through  that  darkness,  grim  and  black, 
I  shall  but  follow  on  its  track. 

Remember  all  fair  things,  and  good, 
That  e'er  were  dream'd  or  understood, 
For  they  shall  all  the  Past  requite, 
So  you  but  shun  the  sea  to-night! 

No  more  of  dreams !     Nor  let  there  be 
One  tender  thought  of  them  or  me, — 
For  on  the  way  that  I  must  wend 
I  dread  no  harm  and  need  no  friend ! 

The  golden  shafts  of  sunset  fall 
Athwart  the  gray  cathedral  wall, 
While  o9er  its  tombs  of  old  renown 
The  rose-leaves  softly  flutter  down. 

No  thought  of  holy  things  can  save 
One  relic  now  from  Memory's  grave, 
And  be  it  sun,  or  moon,  or  star, 
The  light  that  falls  must  follow  far ! 


291 


I  mind  the  ruined  turrets  bold, 
The  ivy,  flushed  with  sunset  gold, 
The  dew-drenched  roses,  in  their  sleep, 
That  seemed  to  smile,  and  yet  to  weep. 

There'll  be  nor  smile  nor  tear  again  ; 
There'll  be  the  end  of  ev'ry  pain  ; 
There'll  be  no  parting  to  deplore, 
Nor  love  nor  sorrow  any  more. 

I  see  the  sacred  river's  flow, 
The  barge  in  twilight  drifting  slow, 
While  o'er  the  daisi'd  meadow  swells 
The  music  of  the  vesper  bells. 

It  is  my  knell,  —  so  far  away  ! 
The  night  wears  on,  —  I  must  not  stay  ! 
My  canvas  strains  before  the  gale,  — 
My  cables  part,  and  I  must  sail  ! 


Loud  roars  the  sea!     The  dark  has  come. 
He  does  not  move,  —  his  lips  are  dumb.  — 
Ah,  God  receive,  on  shores  of  light, 
The  shattered  ship  that  sails  to-night! 


292 


THE    RUBICON 


ONE  other  bitter  drop  to  drink, 

And  then — no  more  ! 
One  little  pause  upon  the  brink, 

And  then — go  o'er  ! 
One  sigh — and  then  the  lib'rant  morn 

Of  perfect  day, 
When  my  free  spirit,  newly  born, 

Will  soar  away ! 


II 


One  pang — and  I  shall  rend  the  thrall 

Where  grief  abides, 
And  generous  Death  will  show  me  all 

That  now  he  hides ; 
And,  lucid  in  that  second  birth, 

I  shall  discern 
What  all  the  sages  of  the  earth 

Have  died  to  learn. 
293 


Ill 

One  motion — and  the  stream  is  crost, 

So  dark,  so  deep  ! 
And  I  shall  triumph,  or  be  lost 

In  endless  sleep. 
Then,  onward  !    Whatsoe'er  my  fate, 

I  shall  not  care  ! 
Nor  Sin  nor  Sorrow,  Love  nor  Hate 

Can  touch  me  there. 


294 


NOTES 


NOTES 

THESE  poems,  which  have  been  chosen  from  among 
hundreds  that  I  have  written,  are  the  only  ones  that  I 
care  to  preserve.  Most  of  them  have  come  to  me  of  their 
own  accord,  not  having  been  compelled  or  even  sought. 
They  are  the  vagrant  children  of  my  love,  and  perhaps 
parental  partiality  has  blinded  my  judgment  and  induced 
me  to  expect  for  them  a  survivance  to  which  they  are 
not  entitled,  and  therefore  not  destined.  I  have  thought, 
however,  that  they  express,  for  others  not  less  than  for 
their  writer,  representative  moods  of  feeling  and  repre 
sentative  phases  of  experience.  The  desire  is  honorable 
and  natural  to  add  something,  not  wholly  unworthy,  to 
those  sacred  treasures  of  English  lyrical  poetry  of  which 
gentleness  is  the  soul  and  simplicity  the  garment.  In 
arranging  the  poems  I  have  tried  to  follow  the  line  of 
transition,  which  is  of  universal  knowledge,  from  the 
period  of  youth,  love,  and  hope,  to  the  period  of  age, 
contemplation,  and  memory;  but  the  line  is,  unavoidably, 
vague.  The  poems  that  celebrate  persons  and  places 
will,  perhaps,  commend  themselves  to  sympathy  because 
of  the  interest  inherent  in  the  subjects  to  which  they  re 
late.  The  notes  which  here  follow  are  explanatory  of 
personal  allusions  and  memorial  incidents. 

ORGIA. — That  poem  has  had  a  singular  experience, 
the  authorship  of  it  having  been,  periodically,  ascribed  to 

297 


various  drunkards,  lunatics,  suicides,  and  other  such  ec 
centric  persons,  in  whose  pockets,  after  death,  manu 
script  copies  of  it  have  been  found, — in  a  state  of  mangled 
metre  and  bad  grammar.  I  wrote  it,  December  10,  1859, 
in  Boston,  and  it  was  published,  January  7,  1860,  in 
"The  New  York  Saturday  Press." 

THE  ORDEAL. — That  poem  was  delivered  by  me,  May 
4,  1885,  at  the  dedication  of  the  Actors'  Memorial  to  the 
poet  POE,  in  the  Metropolitan  Museum,  New  York.  It 
was  not  written  for  any  occasion,  but  I  thought  it  appro 
priate  to  that  one.  Its  original  title  was  LOVE  AND 
DEATH.  Poe's  parents  were  actors. 

JUBEL. — A  Hebrew  word,  signifying  the  sound  of  a 
trumpet,  and  therefore  indicative  of  the  note  of  triumph, 
which  this  poem  is  designed  to  express. 

ADA. — Written  to  commemorate  a  dearly  loved  friend, 
ADA  CLARE,  who  died  on  May  4,  1874,  of  hydrophobia, 
having  been  bitten  by  a  pet  dog.  She  was  a  woman  of 
extraordinary  beauty,  and  not  less  good  than  beautiful. 
She  was  buried  at  Hammonton,  N.  J. 

ASLEEP,  and  THE  BROKEN  HARP. — Both  those  poems 
were  set  to  music  by  my  dear  friend,  the  lamented  RICH 
ARD  MANSFIELD.  The  melodies  that  he  composed  for 
them  are  tender  and  lovely,  and  he  often  sang  them,  with 
deep  feeling  and  fine  effect. 

ELEGY  FOR  MANSFIELD. — Written  at  Mentone,  Cali 
fornia,  in  the  beautiful  vale  of  San  Bernardino,  on  hear 
ing  of  the  death  of  my  friend  Richard  Mansfield.  It  is 

298 


to  the  magnificent  scenery  of  that  place  that  the  opening 
stanzas  of  this  poem  allude. 

The  poem  of  THE  BROKEN  HARP,  written  while 
driving  in  the  vale  of  the  Dargle,  near  Dublin,  was 
prompted  by  the  sight  of  one  of  those  little  harps,  made 
of  bog-oak, — the  strings  being,  in  part,  broken, — that 
are  found  among  the  souvenirs  sold  to  travellers  who 
visit  the  storied  and  deeply  interesting  capital  city  of 
Ireland. 

HOMEWARD  BOUND. — This  poem  possesses,  for  me,  a 
kind  of  sanctity,  because  its  words  are  the  last  ever  read 
by  my  dear  friend,  the  great  tragedian  EDWIN  BOOTH. 

BROUGHAM. — This  tribute  to  the  Irish  comedian  JOHN 
BROUGHAM  was  read  by  me  at  a  festival  in  his  honor, 
at  the  Lotos  Club,  New  York,  June  4,  1874,  when  he 
had  made  known  the  intention, — which,  however,  he  did 
not  fulfil, — of  returning  to  his  native  land. 

A  WELCOME. — Read  at  a  banquet  to  the  eminent 
English  comedian,  JOHN  LAWRENCE  TOOLE,  August  6, 
1874,  to  greet  him  on  his  arrival  in  America. 

COMRADES. — Read  at  festival  in  honor  of  the  comedian 
GEORGE  FAWCETT  ROWE,  August  29,  1875.  Rowe  was 
distinguished  for  the  versatility  of  his  talents  and  the 
fluency  of  his  blithe  humor.  He  was  born  at  Exeter, 
England ;  he  died  at  New  York,  August  30,  1889. 

POE. — Read  at  the  dedication  of  a  monument  at  the 
grave  of  the  poet  POE,  in  Westminster  churchyard,  Balti 
more,  November  19,  1875. 


THE  VOICE  OF  THE  SILENCE. — This  title,  originated  by 
me,  was  subsequently  taken  and  used,  in  the  same  sense, 
by  a  writer  on  "theosophy."  The  poem  was  delivered 
by  me  before  the  Society  of  the  Army  of  the  Potomac,  at 
the  Academy  of  Music,  Philadelphia,  June  6,  1876. 

EDELWEISS. — At  a  festival,  November  30,  1878,  in 
honor  of  the  noble  comedian  JOHN  GILBERT,  who  on  that 
date  completed  his  fiftieth  year  as  an  actor,  I  delivered 
an  address,  closing  it  with  that  poem.  Gilbert,  born 
February  27,  1810,  died  June  17,  1889. 

AT  SHAKESPEARE'S  GRAVE. — Written,  1889,  in  the 
Church  at  Stratford-upon-Avon,  in  which  Shakespeare  is 
buried.  Originally  called  ASHES, — because  significant  of 
all  that  is  left  when  the  fire  of  life  has  been  extinguished. 

A  PLEDGE. — Read  by  me  before  the  Society  of  the 
Army  of  the  Potomac,  at  Albany,  New  York,  June  18, 
1879.  Originally  called  A  PLEDGE  TO  THE  DEAD. 

HOLMES. — On  the  occasion  of  the  Atlantic  Festival, 
which  occurred  at  the  Brunswick  Hotel,  Boston,  Decem 
ber  3,  1879,  to  commemorate  the  seventieth  birthday  of 
the  poet  OLIVER  WENDELL  HOLMES,  I  delivered  this 
poem.  Holmes  was  born  August  29,  1809. 

A  LOTOS  FLOWER. — To  signalize,  March  27,  1880,  the 
tenth  anniversary  of  the  establishment  of  the  Lotos  Club. 

FIDELE. — Commemorative  of  the  actress  ADELAIDE 
NEILSON,  who  died  suddenly,  at  Paris,  August  15,  1880, 
in  the  perfection  of  her  genius  and  beauty  and  in  the 
meridian  of  her  professional  renown. 

300 


AT  ARLINGTON. — This  poem  was  delivered  by  me  in 
course  of  exercises  in  Arlington  Cemetery,  Washington, 
D.  C.,  May  31,  1880. 

A  FAREWELL. — Written  in  honor  of  the  tragedian  JOHN 
McCuLLouGH,  1832-1885,  and  read  by  me,  at  a  fare 
well  festival  to  him,  April  4,  1881,  on  the  eve  of  his  de 
parture  for  England,  to  fulfil  an  engagement  at  Drury 
Lane  Theatre,  London. 

THE  PASSING  BELL. — It  is  an  accepted  tradition  in 
Stratford-upon-Avon  that  the  bell  of  the  Guild  Chapel  was 
tolled  on  occasion  of  the  death  and  also  of  the  funeral  of 
Shakespeare.  This  poem  was  written  at  the  Red  Horse, 
Stratford,  September  14,  1890. 

LAWRENCE  BARRETT. — Written  as  a  farewell  greeting  to 
that  noble  actor,  June  7,  1881,  on  the  eve  of  his  departure 
for  England,  to  fulfil  a  professional  engagement  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  London. 

A  REVERIE. — My  comrade  in  youth,  the  poet  GEORGE 
ARNOLD,  1834-1865,  is  portrayed  in  this  poem. 

AMARANTH. — A  tribute  to  WILLIAM  WARREN,  one  of  the 
most  distinguished  comedians  of  the  nineteenth  century. 
Performances  occurred  at  the  Museum,  Boston,  October 
28,  1882,  to  signalize  the  fiftieth  anniversary  of  his  first 
appearance  on  the  stage.  At  midnight,  after  the  play,  at 
a  supper  in  the  comedian's  home,  No.  2  Bulfinch  Place,  a 
Loving  Cup  was  presented  to  him, — the  gift  of  EDWIN 
BOOTH,  JOSEPH  JEFFERSON,  MARY  ANDERSON,  JOHN 
MCCULLOUGH,  and  LAWRENCE  BARRETT, — and,  in  offer 
ing  that  token,  I  read  this  poem. 

301 


William  Warren,  born  at  Philadelphia,  November  17, 
1812,  died  at  Boston,  September  21,  1888.  The  Loving 
Cup  here  mentioned  was  by  him  bequeathed  to  Joseph 
Jefferson,  and  by  Jefferson  was  bequeathed  to  "The 
Players,"  New  York,  among  the  treasures  of  which  club 
it  is  preserved. 

GOOD-NIGHT. — The  last  words  spoken  to  me  by  my 
old  friend  WILLIAM  A.  SEAVER,  the  genial  humorist  of 
" Harper's  Magazine,"  were  "Good-night,  my  boy,"  and 
that  poem  depicts  him  as  he  was  known  to  me.  His 
death  occurred  on  January  7,  1883,  at  Mount  Vernon, 
New  York. 

ARTHUR. — Commemorates  my  son,  ARTHUR  WINTER  ; 
born  April  5,  1872  ;  died  January  24,  1886. 

RAYMOND. — Epitaph  for  an  actor,  deeply  lamented  and 
not  forgotten.  His  grave  is  in  the  Actors'  burial  ground, 
at  Evergreen  Cemetery,  Long  Island,  marked  with  a  stone 
bearing  my  lines,  preceded  by  the  following  inscription : 

This  monument,  the  gift  of  many  affectionate  friends,  is  placed 

here  in  loving  memory  of  John  T.  Raymond,  comedian. 

He  was  born  in  Buffalo,  New  York,  April 

5,  1836.     He  died  in  Evansville, 

Indiana,  April  10,  1887. 

"  Hinc  apicem  rapax 
Fortuna  cum  stridore  acuto 
Sustulit,  hie  posuisse  gaudet." 

ANUBIS. — The  name  of  the  Egyptian  deity  who  was 
believed  to  preside  over  the  transit  of  souls  across  the 
river  of  death.  I  delivered  this  poem  at  the  dedication 

302 


of  the  Actors'  Monument,  in  their  burial  ground  at  Ever 
green  Cemetery,  June  6,  1887.  The  monument  is  in 
scribed  with  two  lines  from  Shakespeare : 

"The  benediction  of  these  covering  heavens 
Fall  on  their  heads  like  dew." 

It  also  bears  these  inscriptions,  written  by  me  : 

In  loving  memory  of  many  votaries  of  the  stage,  whose  ashes 

are  buried  near  it,  this  monument  was  placed  by  the 

Actors'  Fund  of  America,  June  6,  1887. 

Here  to  your  eyes,  our  earthly  labors  done, 

We,  who  played  many  parts,  now  play  but  one. 

We  knew  the  stops,  could  give  the  viol  breath. 

But  now  are  only  monitors  of  death  : 

Yet  even  thus  our  relics  may  impart 

A  truth  beyond  the  reach  of  living  art, — 

Teaching  the  strong,  the  beautiful,  the  brave, 

That  all  life's  pathways  centre  in  the  grave  ; 

Bidding  them  live,  nor  negligent  nor  fond, 

To  bless  this  world,  yet  ever  look  beyond. 

SIR  PERCIVAL. — A  tribute,  December  17,  1887,  to 
LESTER  WALLACK,  the  most  brilliant  actor  of  high 
comedy  on  the  American  stage  in  his  time.  He  was  born 
at  New  York,  January  1,  1820  ;  he  died  at  Stamford, 
Connecticut,  September  6,  1888. 

THE  STATUE. — Spoken  by  me  at  the  dedication  of 
a  monument  at  the  grave  of  JOHN  McCuLLOUGH,  in 
Mount  Moriah  Cemetery,  Philadelphia,  November  28, 
1888.  The  monument  bears  an  effigy  of  the  actor,  and 
the  poem  is  an  apostrophe  to  it. 


LAUREL. — Both  those  poems,  in  honor  of  the  eminent 
statesman  WHITELAW  REID, — the  Halifax  of  American 
political  life  in  our  time, — were  spoken  by  me  on  occa 
sions  of  festival:  the  first,  on  May  3,  1889,  at  Delmonico's, 
New  York,  when  Mr.  Reid  was  about  to  sail  for  France,  to 
assume  the  office  of  American  Minister  to  the  Republican 
Court  of  that  country  ;  the  second,  on  April  30,  1892,  at 
the  Lotos  Club,  upon  his  return  from  that  distinguished 
mission. 

HEAVEN'S  HOUR. — Written  on  hearing  organ  music,  at 
night,  in  the  Shakespeare  church,  at  Stratford,  September 
18,  1890. 

FLORENCE. — Epitaph,  for  WILLIAM  JAMES  FLORENCE, 
comedian,  once  widely  known  and  highly  distinguished. 
He  was  born  at  Albany,  New  York,  July  26,  1831;  he 
died  at  Philadelphia,  November  19,  1891.  His  grave  is 
in  Greenwood,  and  those  lines  of  mine  are  on  his  tomb 
stone. 

RUPERT,  and  IN  MEMORY  OF  CURTIS. — The  first  of 
these  poems,  commemorative  of  GEORGE  WILLIAM  CURTIS, 
was  written  soon  after  his  death  :  the  second  was  con 
tributed  by  me  to  exercises  incident  to  the  dedication  of 
the  Curtis  Lyceum,  at  New  Brighton,  Staten  Island,  New 
York,  February  24,  1908.  Curts,  born  at  Providence, 
Rhode  Island,  February  24,  1824,  died  at  West  New 
Brighton,  Staten  Island,  New  York,  Au  ust  31,  1892. 
His  grave  is  in  the  old  Moravian  Cemetery,  Staten  Island. 

TRIBUTE  TO  JEFFERSON. — Written  at  sea,  aboard  the 
steamship  New  York,  October  17,  1895,  and  contributed 

304 


to  exercises  in  honor  of  that  great  comedian,  JOSEPH 
JEFFERSON,  at  the  Garden  Theatre,  New  York,  Novem 
ber  8,  1895. 

LINES  TO  A  GHOST. — Written  on  the  fly-leaf  of  my 
Folio,  1681,  of  the  works  of  that  noble  old  English  poet, 
ABRAHAM  COWLEY,  beneath  the  inscription,  by  a  former 
owner  of  the  precious  volume:  "Elizabeth  Butler — Her 
Book— 1692." 

ELEGY  FOR  BROMLEY. — Written  at  Santa  Catalina 
Island,  Pacific  Ocean,  August  27,  1898,  on  hearing  of  the 
death  of  a  comrade,  the  brilliant  journalist,  ISAAC  H. 
BROMLEY,  who  died  August  11,  at  Norwich,  Connecticut. 

CORONAL  FOR  STEDMAN. — At  a  meeting  of  the  Authors' 
Club,  New  York,  December  6,  1900,  I  delivered  an  ad 
dress,  in  honor  of  the  poet  EDMUND  CLARENCE  STEDMAN, 
closing  it  with  that  poem.  Stedman,  born  at  Hartford, 
Connecticut,  October  8,  1833,  died  at  New  York,  Janu 
ary  18,  1908.  We  were  intimate  friends  for  nearly  fifty 
years. 

THE  CORNER  STONE. — This  poem  was  delivered  by 
me  at  the  laying  of  the  corner  stone  of  the  Richmond 
Borough  Hall,  at  New  Brighton,  Staten  Island,  May 
21, 1904.  My  lines  called  THE  VOICE  OF  THE  BELL  are 
inscribed  on  the  bell  in  the  tower  of  that  building. 

A  GREETING. — Sent  on  April  23,  1898,  to  my  loved  and 
honored  friend,  that  remarkable  actress  and  still  more  re 
markable  woman,  MRS.  G.  H.  GILBERT. 

Anne  Hartley,  Mrs.  G.  H.  Gilbert,  born  October  21, 
1822,  at  Rochdale,  England,  died  December  2,  1904,  in 

305 


the  Sherman  House,  Chicago.     Her  grave  is  in  Green 
wood. 

TRIBUTE  TO  IRVING. — Those  three  poems  were  deliv 
ered  by  me,  at  festivals,  in  New  York,  in  honor  of  that 
illustrious  actor  HENRY  IRVING,  1838-1905:  the  first,  on 
November  18,  1883  ;  the  second,  on  April  29,  1884 ;  the 
third,  on  April  6,  1885. 

CORONATION  ODE. — Written  at  the  request  of  HENRY 
IRVING,  who  wished  and  intended  to  recite  it,  at  the 
Lyceum  Theatre,  London,  in  the  evening  of  the  mem 
orable  day  when  KING  EDWARD  VII  was  crowned,  in 
Westminster  Abbey.  The  royal  command  that  theatres 
should  be  closed  on  that  occasion  prevented  the  fulfil 
ment  of  the  great  actor's  intention. 

Louis. — Commemorates  my  son,  Louis  VICTOR  WIN 
TER.  He  was  born  at  New  Brighton,  Staten  Island,  New 
York,  July  17,  1873  ;  he  died  at  Redlands,  California, 
February  17,  1905. 

THE  RHYME  OF  THE  VETERAN. — Written  on  my  seven 
tieth  birthday,  July  15,  1906. 

W.  L.  S.— WILLIAM  LAW  SYMONDS,  a  comrade  of 
mine  in  1860.  He  was  born  at  Raymond,  Maine,  April 
29,  1833  ;  he  died  at  New  York,  January  18,  1862.  His 
writings,  compiled  and  edited  by  me,  with  a  sketch  of 
his  life,  were  privately  printed,  in  1908,  under  the  direc 
tion  of  his  devoted  brother,  HON.  JOSEPH  W.  SYMONDS, 
of  Portland.  He  was  a  man  of  great  intellect  and  varied 

306 


and  comprehensive  learning,  remarkable  for  nobility  of 
character  and  beauty  of  life. 

MISERIMUS. — When  walking  and  musing  in  the  pre 
cincts  of  the  beautiful  Cathedral  of  Worcester,  England, 
I  saw  that  word, — with  no  other, — on  a  stone  in  the  pave 
ment,  marking  a  tomb.  A  more  pathetic  epitaph  could 
not  be  conceived.  Remembrance  of  it  has  long  haunted 
my  mind,  and  it  suggested  this  poem. 

THE  VICTOR. — This  poem  records  my  remembrance 
and  estimate  of  my  old  comrade,  CLIFTON  W.  TAY- 
LEURE,  who  died, — alone  and  after  much  trial  and  suffer 
ing,— April  12,  1891. 


307 


THE  POEMS  OF  WILLIAM  WINTER 

INDEX  OF  FIRST  LINES 

LINE  POEM  PAGE 

A  calm  cold  face  as  white  and  clear Predestined 43 

A  cloud  of  crystal  veined  with  gold Viola 265 

A  heart  of  sunshine,  and  a  face A  Fancy 15 

A  kingly  name  !  and  like  a  king Louis 261 

A  line  or  two The  Rhyme  of  the  Vet 
eran  266 

A  perfume  that  all  sense  delights A  Welcome 89 

A  raven  flew  over  the  house-top Omen 31 

A  tangled  garden,  bleak  and  dry Memory 277 

Ah,  had  we  met  in  other  days,  before  my 

soul  had  known The  Yellow  Rose 272 

Ah,  Lily,  when  my  head  lies  low A  Souvenir 274 

All  the  flowers  were  in  their  pride Rupert 219 

Alone,  at  night,  he  heard  them  sigh Longfellow 160 

And  O  to  think  the  sun  can  shine Fidele 139 

Angel  of  Grief  !  thy  spectral  passage  wing 
ing The  Ordeal 60 

As  years  drift  on  and  joys  decline The  Young  Heart 275 

At  morning,  when  the  march  began Comrades 97 

Because  in  danger's  darkest  hour Laurel 202 

Because  love's  token  is  a  sigh Questions 20 

Beneath  the  midnight  moon  of  May The  Night  Watch 28 

Beneath  the  snow,  beneath  the  daisies In  Memory  of  Curtis.. .  269 

Beneath  the  still  November  sky George  Arnold 73 


LINE  POEM  PAGE 

Be  patient  and  be  wise  !    The  eyes  of  death.  Resignation 264 

Black  rocks  upon  the  ragged  coast Accomplices 50 

Bright  on  the  sparkling  sod  to-day The  Voice  of  the  Silence  102 

Bring  poppies  for  a  weary  mind The  White  Flag 68 

Bring  withered  autumn  leaves Requiem 40 

But  yesterday  he  was  our  little  child The  Difference 187 

By  Virtue  cherished,  by  Affection  mourned.  Florence 218 

Cold  is  the  paean  honor  sings Poe 100 

Come  with  a  smile,  when  come  thou  must.  The  Angel  of  Death  . .  .  151 
Comrade  and  friend  !  what  tribute  shall  I 

render Coronal  for  Stedman. . .  242 

Can  I  forget? — no,  never  while  my  soul.  .  Heaven's  Hour 216 

Could  we  but  feel  that  our  lost  ones  are 

near  us Anubis 189 

Daughter  and  mother  of  a  line  of  kings  . .  Coronation  Ode 257 

Dear  heart,  and  true,  in  the  seasons  fled  .  After  Long  Years 212 

Early,  but  not  too  early  for  thy  fame Not  Forgotten 184 

Everything  my  heart  would  say With  a  Handful  of  Roses    23 

Fairy  spirits  of  the  breeze Unwritten  Poems 30 

Far  off  beyond  the  shining  sea Tribute  to  Irving  (II)..  251 

For  me  terrestrial  mountains  rise Elegy  for  Mansfield 284 

Freed  from  the  strife  of  this  world,  and  the 

scorn  of  it The  Victor 217 

From  the  lily  of  love  that  uncloses A  Pledge 113 

"  Good-night,  my  boy;"  and  with  a  smile.   Good-Night 174 

Green  trees,  and  grassy  fields,  and  sunset 

light In  Peace 159 

He  loves  not  well  whose  love  is  bold The  Queen 21 

He  knelt  beside  her  pillow,  in  the  dead 

watch  of  the  night Asleep 80 

310 


LINE  POEM  PAGE 

Her  young  face  is  softly  fair An  Ideal 16 

Here's  a  health  to  the  lass  with  the  merry 

blue  eyes Blue  and  Black 201 

His  barque  will  fade,  in  mist  and  night. . .  Edwin  Booth 136 

His  restless  spirit,  while  on  earth  he  dwelt.  Raymond 188 

How  different  now,  old  friend,  the  meeting .  The  Statue 195 

If  buds  by  hope  of  spring  are  blessed. . . .  Brougham 86 

If  I  could  speak  thy  gentle  grace The  Old  Love 276 

If  now  this  silent  harp  could  wake The  Broken  Harp 287 

If  that  glad  song  had  ebbed  away Holmes 120 

If  this  were  all,  if  lost  with  those  that  perish.  At  Arlington 130 

If  we  could  win  from  Shakespeare's  river.  Tribute  to  Irving  (I).. .  251 

I  had  a  dream,  one  glorious,  summer  night.  Beauty 13 

I  know  not  if  thy  charm  it  be Elsie 237 

I  lay  this  rose  upon  thy  grave,  dear  com 
rade,  fond  and  true T.  B.  A 289 

I  watched  your  ship  where  strong  and 

bright Perdita 280 

In  dusky  gloom  she  sits  apart Ebb  Tide 177 

In  my  tower,  above  the  gate The  Voice  of  the  Bell. .  271 

In  pursuing  the  Muse  you  will  find  that  the 

jade  is What's  In  a  Name 206 

It  droops  and  dies  in  morning  light The  Undertone 41 

It  comes  into  my  mind,  in  a  genial  mood.  The  Merry  Monarch. . .   125 

It  is  not  that  she's  far  away Changed 32 

It  is  the  law  of  streams  to  run Circe 34 

It  was  thy  book ;  it  now  is  mine Lines  to  a  Ghost 233 

Long  he  slumbers:  will  he  waken,  greeting, 

as  he  used  to  do Monody    for    Augustin 

Daly 238 

Long  hushed  is  the  harp  that  his  glory  had 

spoken A  Farewell 146 

Look  not  upon  the  wine  when  it Up  or  Down 124 

311 


LINE  POEM  PAGE 

Love  bids  me  twine A  Bridal  Rhyme 231 

Love  never  dies,  that  harbors  in  a  jest.. . .  Love  Untold 129 

Midnight  and  moonlight  encircle  her  slum 
bers Victoria 26 

More  strange  than  death  to  all  regrets.. . ,  The  White  Rose 37 

No  act  in  Beauty's  service  done The  Corner  Stone 244 

No  eyes  can  see  man's  destiny  completed.  At  Shakespeare's  Grave  112 

Not  made  by  worth,  nor  marred  by  flaw  .  Dead  Leaves 35 

Not  only  to  give  light  those  urns Symbols 19 

Now  fades  across  the  glimmering  deep,  now 

darkly  drifts  away Tribute  to  Irving  (III)  254 

Now  she  lies  here,  dead  before  you Across  the  Pall 141 

Often  and  often,  when  the  days  were  dark.  In  Memory  of  Wilkie 

Collins 214 

Of  vain  regret  the  heaviest  yoke Regret 140 

On  roseate  shores,  in  evening's  glow Homeward  Bound 81 

One  name  I  shall  not  forget Violet 179 

One  other  bitter  drop  to  drink The  Rubicon 293 

Ordained  to  work  the  heavenly  will The  Harbinger 93 

Out  in  the  dark  it  throbs  and  glows On  the  Verge 290 

Pure  soul  and   true!   in  bonds  of  doubt 

confined W.  L.  S 271 

Red  globes  of  autumn  strew  the  sod Amaranth 170 

Rosy  days  of  youth  and  fancy Old  Days  and  Loves. .  .  208 

Seeming  empty  to  the  eye With  a  Casket 232 

Set  your  face  to  the  sea,  fond  lover The  Refuge 39 

Shrined  among  their  crystal  seas lona 226 

Snow  and  stars,  the  same  as  ever Age 286 

Sore  and  sad  has  been  my  heart My  Little  Child 210 

Spirit  of  beauty,  haunt  me  not The  Veiled  Muse 156 

312 


LINE  POEM  PAGE 

Spring  will  return,  and  woods  grow  green.  Ada 75 

Sweet  bell  of  Stratford,  tolling  slow The  Passing  Bell 116 

Sweet  oblivion,  blood  of  grape Lethe 56 

Surge  up  in  wanton  waves  to-day Jubel 71 

The  apples  are  ripe  in  the  orchard After  All 108 

The  bard  of  Rydal  Mount  spake  well Nature 101 

The  clouds  drift  and  the  rivers  flow Idleness 72 

The  dark'ning  shadows  eastward  slope.  . .  The  Sceptre 246 

The  dirge  is  sung,  the  ritual  said Elegy  for  Bromley 234 

The  future  and  the  past  are  blended Full-Circle 51 

The  lonely  sailor,  when  the  night The  Signal  Light 127 

The  lonesome  road  winds  down  the  moun 
tain  side A  Picture 119 

The  lonesome  wind  of  autumn  grieves The  Churchyard 149 

The  moonbeams  on  the  water  sleep The  Sequel 182 

The  night-wind  that  sobs  in  the  trees The  Night-Wind 176 

The  peace  of  this  autumnal  day A  Reverie 163 

The  rose  that  withered  here  will  bloom 

again Faith 256 

The  sere  leaves  rustle  in  the  moaning  blast  Never 140 

The  songs  that  should  greet  him  are  songs 

of  the  mountain • Tribute  to  Jefferson. ...  229 

The  star  I  worship  shines  alone Egeria 168 

The  stroller  in  the  pensive  field The  Lover 18 

The  sunset  beams  that  backward  flow.. .  .  A  Greeting 250 

The  torture  of  consuming  thought Miserimus 288 

The  violets  that  you  gave  are  dead Relics 29 

There's  a  lurid  light  in  the  clouds  to-night.  The  Wreckers  Bell. ...  44 

There^s  a  mossy,  sunken  grave Erebus 55 

There's  a  region  afar  from  earth Beyond  the  Dark 78 

They  rose  in  beauty  on  the  plains My  Palaces 199 

They  walked  beside  the  summer  sea No  More 110 

Think  of  me  as  your  friend,  I  pray A  Wish 249 

313 


LINE  POEM  PAGE 

This  is  the  place  where  he  brought  her 

home The  Outcast 144 

Though  still  the  heart  of  twilight  grieves  .  A  Lotos  Flower 123 

'Tis  little,  but  'tis  witness  of  one  soul. . . .  This  Book 268 

To  others  let  the  sunbeams  fly In  Absence 275 

True  heart!  upon  the  current  of  whose  love .  Incense 22 

Well,  since  our  lot  must  be  to  part An  Empty  Heart 224 

What  though  I  sing  no  other  song The  Golden  Silence 158 

Where,  pure  and  pale,  the  starlight  streams .  Edelweiss Ill 

When  from  his  gaze  our  shores  receding. .  Lawrence  Barrett 153 

When  shuts  the  rose,  when  the  long  gloam 
ing  dies Remember 225 

When  you  shall  walk  in  pensive  mood —  Now 33 

While  Evening  waits  and  hearkens At  Stratford 178 

While  pale  with  rage  the  wild  surf  springs.  At  Anchor 135 

White   clouds,    lone   wand'ring   o'er   the 

wastes  that  sever A  Lost  Love 42 

White  daisies  on  the  meadow  green Homage 24 

White  sail  upon  the  ocean  verge Arthur 185 

Who  cares  for  nothing  alone  is  free Orgia 52 

Who  rusts  inactive  learns  the  bliss  of  toil.  Submission 263 

With  a  glimmer  of  plumes  and  a  sparkle  of 

lances Sir  Percival 193 

With  diamond  dew  the  grass  was  wet Constance 117 


314 


TITLE   INDEX 

PAGE 

Accomplices 50 

Across  the  Pall 141 

Ada 75 

After  All 108 

After  Long  Years 212 

Age 286 

Amaranth 170 

Angel  of  Death,  The lol 

Anubis 189 

Arnold,  George 73 

Arthur 185 

Asleep 80 

At  Anchor 135 

At  Arlington 130 

At  Shakespeare's  Grave 112 

At  Stratford 178 

Barrett,  Lawrence 153 

Beauty 13 

Beyond  the  Dark 78 

Blue  and  Black 201 

Booth,  Edwin 136 

Bridal  Rhyme,  A 231 

Broken  Harp,  The 287 

Bromley,  Elegy  for 234 

Brougham 86 

Changed 32 

Churchyard,  The 149 

Circe 34 

Collins,  Wilkie,  In  Memory  of 214 

Comrades 97 

Constance 117 

Coronation  Ode 257 

315 


PAGE 

Corner  Stone,  The 244 

Curtis,  In  Memory  of 269 

Daly,  Augustin,  Monody  for 238 

Dead  Leaves • 35 

Difference,  The 187 

Ebb  Tide 177 

Edelweiss Ill 

Egeria 168 

Elsie 237 

Empty  Heart,  An 224 

Erebus 55 

Faith 256 

Fancy,  A 15 

Farewell,  A 146 

Fidele 139 

Florence  :  An  Epitaph 218 

Full-Circle 51 

Golden  Silence,  The 158 

Good-Night 174 

Greeting,  A 250 

Harbinger,  The 93 

Heaven's  Hour 216 

Holmes 120 

Homage 24 

Homeward  Bound 81 

Ideal,  An 16 

Idleness 72 

In  Absence 275 

In  Peace 159 

Incense 22 

lona 226 

Irving,  Tribute  to,  1 251 

Irving,  Tribute  to,  II 251 

Irving,  Tribute  to,  III 254 

316 


PAGE 

Jefferson,  Tribute  to 229 

Jubel 71 

Laurel 202 

Lethe 56 

Lines  to  a  Ghost 233 

Longfellow 160 

Lost  Love,  A 42 

Lotos  Flower,  A 123 

Louis 261 

Love  Untold 129 

Lover,  The 18 

Mansfield,  Elegy  for 284 

Memory 277 

Merry  Monarch,  The 125 

Miserimus 288 

My  Little  Child 210 

My  Palaces 199 

Nature 101 

Never 140 

Night  Watch,  The 28 

Night  Wind,  The 176 

No  More 110 

Not  Forgotten 184 

Now 33 

Old  Days  and  Loves 208 

Old  Love,  The 276 

Omen , 31 

On  the  Verge 290 

Ordeal,  The 60 

Orgia 52 

Outcast,  The 144 

Passing  Bell,  The 116 

Perdita 280 

Picture,  A 119 

317 


PAGE 

Pledge,  A 113 

Poe 100 

Predestined 43 

Queen,  The 21 

Questions 20 

Raymond  :  An  Epitaph 188 

Refuge,  The 39 

Rhyme  of  the  Veteran,  The 266 

Regret 140 

Relics 29 

Remember 274 

Requiem 40 

Resignation 264 

Reverie,  A 163 

Rubicon,  The 293 

Rupert 219 

Sceptre,  The 246 

Sequel,  The 182 

Signal  Light,  The 127 

Sir  Percival 193 

Souvenir,  A 274 

Statue,  The 195 

Stedman,  Coronal  for 242 

Submission 263 

Symbols 19 

T.  B.  A 289 

This  Book 268 

Undertone,  The 41 

Unwritten  Poems 30 

Up  or  Down 124 

Veiled  Muse,  The 156 

Viola 265 

Violet 179 

Victor,  The 217 

318 


PAGE 

Victoria 26 

Voice  of  the  Bell,  The 271 

Voice  of  the  Silence,  The 102 

Welcome,  A 89 

What's  In  a  Name 206 

White  Flag,  The 68 

White  Rose,  The 37 

With  a  Casket 232 

With  a  Handful  of  Roses 23 

Wish,  A 249 

W.  L.  S 271 

Wrecker's  Bell,  The 44 

Yellow  Rose,  The 272 

Young  Heart,  The 275 


319 


Winter, W 
Poems 


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